


Another Day Another Pain

by Redhoodlyn



Category: Bleach
Genre: F/M, Headaches from Mind Reading, M/M, Mind Reading, Reader-Insert, Slow Burn, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-02-23
Updated: 2017-02-05
Packaged: 2018-03-14 16:59:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 26
Words: 71,970
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3418466
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Redhoodlyn/pseuds/Redhoodlyn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Due to an unfortunate start, Ichigo’s habit to think in a homicidal and bipolar fashion, and your terrible ability to read minds—well, neither of you have been able to get along. You don’t have any qualms with being civilized when the situation calls for it, but you’d really prefer to not be on the receiving end of his apparently named death-sword or something…</p><p>You’d rather avoid him at all costs.</p><p>But now, you’ve been partnered together for a yearlong project… and why is Ichigo thinking about starting a war?!</p><p> </p><p>This project is really going to be a disaster.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. (M) Chapter 1: Sunny with a Dash of Orange

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **ADVANCE WARNING:** Later in this story, there will be mentions of manipulative families and minor signs of some internalized/perceived emotional/mental manipulation/abuse. There’s nothing graphic or major in this regard, it’s all pretty minor and briefly mentioned, but I wanted to put this warning here anyway, especially because the reader’s family circumstances are referenced and a bit of a plot point. 
> 
> **SPOILER WARNING:** Personally, I haven’t really kept up with the series after the whole Aizen-arc, but I have situated the timeline after that and so there are just spoilers.
> 
>  **M/F Chapters:** It’s pretty self-explanatory: for male-reader perspective go to chapters marked “M” and for female-reader perspective go to chapters marked “F.” Aside from gender pronouns and certain bodily/canon character reactions, chapters are the same. I’m doing this because I want more male-reader stories to exist, and because I want to create a reader-insert that’s accessible to everyone (or as close to that as one can get)… Lemme know how well/poorly you think this project goes~!

Another day, another drum beating from one ear to the next, another hammer knocking away at the base of your skull, another trumpet blaring an off-beat tune to the chaos stirring in your head—if you focused on one thread long enough, you could make out words first and images second.

 _Oh no, oh no, oh no, oh no I’ve gotta have my homework oh no homework where are you oh no mother will kill me_ preceded flashes of white notes scattered in a disorganized room and a wrinkled woman’s face with startling clear blue eyes frowning close-up at you.

Following the trumpet thread revealed a very masculine voice singing a luxurious, slow rendition of _Bad Romance_ ; strobe flashes of bodies cramped close, a too-loud _Cannot wait for the rave will Aiko be there that girl’s got nice legs_ , another oversaturated flash of long legs and dyed blue-purple hair—

You smacked your head down.

The threads closest to you switched focus.

_Ouch that must’ve hurt—_

_What the fuck is his problem today?—_

_He’s really, really cute, even with his head down—_

_I should volunteer to take him to the nurse—_

_Ask him out?—_

_Then I can skip class—_

You smacked your head again.

 _It doesn’t work like that_ , brain reminded you. If you hadn’t run out of painkillers, or had taken up your brother’s offer to stay home today, then you would’ve been able to focus a bit more or at least sleep the pain away. _Breath first_ , brain advised. You breathed in through your nose. 

Out through your mouth.

In through your nose.

Hold.

_Is he dea—_

Count to ten.

Out through your mouth.

The trumpet’s blaring dulled down, the drum beats faded to a distant thud, the hammer disappeared, and you opened your eyes to stare at the wooden top of your desk.

_Another day, another pain._

The teacher entered the classroom then and took roll call. As she did, you focused on thinking as much as possible. Think about the cat outside on the courtyard wall, think about your brother and whether or not he’d try cooking dinner tonight or order take out, think about the homework you completed last night and the fact that you’d also completed tonight’s homework by accident.

Over the years, you’d learned the best tactic was to either immerse yourself in your own thoughts or in one person’s thoughts. The teacher’s thoughts were generally the safest bet, since they were just a repetition of whatever the teacher said, with the occasional _idiot students why do I have to deal with them and oh, smart cookie!_ and _note to self, work in lesson on arithmetic’s history over the years._ But if you could manage, you stayed inside the confines of your own mind as much as possible.

Your brain frightened you enough by itself. 

Everyone else’s brains added to the mix created a horror movie you’d rather skip. 

The teacher was taking a dreadful amount of time doing roll call—

_Need more coffee. Too many papers graded—_

So you played the game of figuring out how many times various students had skipped class this year, even though you were only a month in. You figured you were in the running for the least skipped, aside from the select majority that never skipped, but you mainly compared yourself to the Kurosaki posse. 

_Kurosaki posse, makes them sound like a biker gang_ , you snorted down a laugh. 

They weren’t all that bad. 

Well, everyone except for Kurosaki wasn’t that bad. Kurosaki on the other hand… let’s just say he’d made it his mission to annihilate any even remotely friendly relationship with you from the first day you moved here. 

_That’s giving him too much credit, he’s not that intelligent or single-minded._ He was bipolar and terrifying. One second you two were talking about how good the latest movie might be and the next he was thinking about killing people and how quickly he could get away from you. 

Frightening. 

After the third encounter of this sort complete with Kurosaki suddenly contorting himself and jumping out of the third floor window, the two of you had somehow settled into civil-when-required interactions but otherwise avoid-at-all-costs tactics. He’d even pushed the envelope into the glaring and scowling zone; generally glaring and scowling at you whenever the two of you passed in the hallway. 

You were very careful to steer clear of his thoughts always, so it may be that he just had a permanent facial tick… when he was around you. 

_It doesn’t matter_ , you thought and smiled at the empty seat two rows over. _He’s not here today._

Despite the painful start, you’d magically been blessed with a clear forecast and sunny day free of certain homicidal orange-haired delinquents~

You rested your chin in your palm and inched your hand over your mouth to hide your grin. 

~

Unfortunately, the predicted clear forecast had included a hundred percent chance of thunderstorms. If you’d know this, you would’ve listened to your brother and stayed home today. 

But sadly, you’re not psychic. You’re just telepathic. 

“Alright class, you may have already heard in the news of the national curriculum change,” [1] Misato began, waving a book back and forth in the air as she spoke, “But I’m required to explain anyways. The government believes we are inadequately preparing you for your future in the workforce!” She slammed the book down. “Can you believe that?” Misato laughed. She fidgeted with her glasses and thought, _As though I don’t work hard enough to drill knowledge into all of you..._ Misato resumed speaking. “Anyways, you are all required to complete a yearlong project covering an approved topic and culminating in arranging the school-wide festival at the end of the year, where you will also present the highlights of your findings.” _These poor kids, guinea pigs… ahh, I’ll try to go easy on them—_

Your grin had long-since dropped in mild irritation. If you’d just stayed in France with Mother, you could’ve avoided this project. _Please don’t let it be a major part of our grade._

“It’s supposed to represent fifty percent of your final grade,” Misato had begun to pass out papers concerning the project guidelines. “But since this is the first time a change of this scale is being implemented, I’m permitted to adjust that percentage as I see fit. As long as you work hard to represent the school well and complete your project, I’ll keep the percentage down—ah! Kurosaki-san, how good of you to join us!” Misato waved the scowling orange-haired teenager in. “Since you’re up here, you can pick your project partner first.” 

Before disaster strikes, flocks of birds will fly to safety. Elephants, in their determination, will break loose of their zoo pens and race to the highest vantage point – safely avoiding the rising waters. Tigers, bears, penguins, cats, dogs, mice and more – all animals with a sense of self-preservation – flee as though pulled away by a magnetic call. 

You are no animal. You are no psychic. You are only telepathic and suffering from another threatening migraine involving _kill kill kill I’m gonna kill them all_ and _shut the fuck up Hollow!_ and _now where did I put that hat—ah, here!_

Breathing. Breathing in. Breathing out. Counting to ten. Breathing in. You concentrated on these, and then when Misato spoke, on her bubbling voice. 

“I’ve decided to try a different way of pairing up partners today. This’ll be fun, won’t it class?” She called, and a solemn murmur of ‘yes sensei’ surged forth. “Here, Kurosaki-san. Pull out a piece of a paper. The name on that paper will be your partner for the yearlong project.” Despite Kurosaki’s harsh scowl, Misato smiled and offered him the hat filled with paper scraps. 

After a beat, Kurosaki pulled out a name. 

_Killkillki—oooh King_ the crackling voice purred and you thought quickly of the cat on the courtyard wall and your brother’s burnt cooking and _King~ this will be so much fun~_ and that voice dropped to a rumble too intoxicating to ignore and—

_SHUT UP HOLLOW!_

“Kurosaki-san?” Misato prompted. Kurosaki glowered at her, as though she were the source of all the chaotic murderous thoughts tumbling about his head. You couldn’t be sure if he really believed that or not and you’d rather not find out much less hear that erotic voice again – you thought of pi and what number came after four. 

Kurosaki said your name. 

“What?” you snapped, near automatic as you’d reached the seventh pi number. Kurosaki blessed you with his ever-present patented Scowl™. 

“You’re my partner dumbass.”

_No._

_No way._

_No way no way no way no way no way._

It took you a second to realize those were your thoughts. 

It took you another second to parcel out that Kurosaki was thinking of all the ways he could murder a person with a sword named Zangetsu without anyone being the wiser, whilst evaluating all the ways that blood would taste lapped up from flesh—

You were dead. 

You were going to die. 

If you didn’t die immediately, you would probably be a casualty of war, since Kurosaki now thought of starting one or ending one, you really couldn’t be sure. 

You were too busy thinking about how best to convince your older brother to return custody of you to Mother so you could move back to France. Today. 

The cat on the courtyard wall cleaned its left ear one last time and then jumped off, vanishing into the street. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [1] I’ve never been to France or Japan, but that’s what the internet is for! I enjoy learning the cultural differences compared to what I’m familiar with (American education) and then incorporating that into character development. I’ll try to expand on any cultural differences in footer notes, and provide the main links I referenced. 
> 
> If there’s anything I get wrong, or that you feel could be explained better, please let me know~!
> 
>  **Curriculums:** In America, they vary from state to state and even school district to school district. But in Japan and France, the curriculum is nationally set. It’s especially strictly adhered to in Japan: every school teaches Math the exact same way at the exact same pace. I made up the curriculum change where High School students are now required to complete a yearlong project because of the wonderful conflict it creates. ;)


	2. (F) Chapter 1: Sunny with a Dash of Orange

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **ADVANCE WARNING:** Later in this story, there will be mentions of manipulative families and minor signs of some internalized/perceived emotional/mental manipulation/abuse. There’s nothing graphic or major in this regard, it’s all pretty minor and briefly mentioned, but I wanted to put this warning here anyway, especially because the reader’s family circumstances are referenced and a bit of a plot point. 
> 
> **SPOILER WARNING:** Personally, I haven’t really kept up with the series after the whole Aizen-arc, but I have situated the timeline after that and so there are just spoilers. 
> 
> **M/F Chapters:** It’s pretty self-explanatory: for male-reader perspective go to chapters marked “M” and for female-reader perspective go to chapters marked “F.” Aside from gender pronouns and certain bodily/canon character reactions, chapters are the same. I’m doing this because I want more male-reader stories to exist, and because I want to create a reader-insert that’s accessible to everyone (or as close to that as one can get)… Lemme know how well/poorly you think this project goes~!

Another day, another drum beating from one ear to the next, another hammer knocking away at the base of your skull, another trumpet blaring an off-beat tune to the chaos stirring in your head—if you focused on one thread long enough, you could make out words first and images second.

_Oh no, oh no, oh no, oh no I’ve gotta have my homework oh no homework where are you oh no mother will kill me_ preceded flashes of white notes scattered in a disorganized room and a wrinkled woman’s face with startling clear blue eyes frowning close-up at you.

Following the trumpet thread revealed a very masculine voice singing a luxurious, slow rendition of _Bad Romance_ ; strobe flashes of bodies cramped close, a too-loud _Cannot wait for the rave will Aiko be there that girl’s got nice legs_ , another oversaturated flash of long legs and dyed blue-purple hair—

You smacked your head down.

The threads closest to you switched focus.

_Ouch that must’ve hurt—_

_What the fuck is her problem today?—_

_She’s really, really cute, even with her head down—_

_I should volunteer to take her to the nurse—_

_Ask her out?—_

_Then I can skip class—_

You smacked your head again.

_It doesn’t work like that_ , brain reminded you. If you hadn’t run out of painkillers, or had taken up your brother’s offer to stay home today, then you would’ve been able to focus a bit more or at least sleep the pain away. _Breath first_ , brain advised. You breathed in through your nose. 

Out through your mouth.

In through your nose.

Hold.

_Is she dea—_

Count to ten.

Out through your mouth.

The trumpet’s blaring dulled down, the drum beats faded to a distant thud, the hammer disappeared, and you opened your eyes to stare at the wooden top of your desk.

_Another day, another pain._

The teacher entered the classroom then and took roll call. As she did, you focused on thinking as much as possible. Think about the cat outside on the courtyard wall, think about your brother and whether or not he’d try cooking dinner tonight or order take out, think about the homework you completed last night and the fact that you’d also completed tonight’s homework by accident.

Over the years, you’d learned the best tactic was to either immerse yourself in your own thoughts or in one person’s thoughts. The teacher’s thoughts were generally the safest bet, since they were just a repetition of whatever the teacher said, with the occasional _idiot students why do I have to deal with them and oh, smart cookie!_ and _note to self, work in lesson on arithmetic’s history over the years._ But if you could manage, you stayed inside the confines of your own mind as much as possible.

Your brain frightened you enough by itself. 

Everyone else’s brains added to the mix created a horror movie you’d rather skip. 

The teacher was taking a dreadful amount of time doing roll call—

_Need more coffee. Too many papers graded—_

So you played the game of figuring out how many times various students had skipped class this year, even though you were only a month in. You figured you were in the running for the least skipped, aside from the select majority that never skipped, but you mainly compared yourself to the Kurosaki posse. 

_Kurosaki posse, makes them sound like a biker gang_ , you snorted down a laugh. 

They weren’t all that bad. 

Well, everyone except for Kurosaki wasn’t that bad. Kurosaki on the other hand… let’s just say he’d made it his mission to annihilate any even remotely friendly relationship with you from the first day you moved here. 

_That’s giving him too much credit, he’s not that intelligent or single-minded._ He was bipolar and terrifying. One second you two were talking about how good the latest movie might be and the next he was thinking about killing people and how quickly he could get away from you. 

Frightening. 

After the third encounter of this sort complete with Kurosaki suddenly contorting himself and jumping out of the third floor window, the two of you had somehow settled into civil-when-required interactions but otherwise avoid-at-all-costs tactics. He’d even pushed the envelope into the glaring and scowling zone; generally glaring and scowling at you whenever the two of you passed in the hallway. 

You were very careful to steer clear of his thoughts always, so it may be that he just had a permanent facial tick… when he was around you. 

_It doesn’t matter_ , you thought and smiled at the empty seat two rows over. _He’s not here today._

Despite the painful start, you’d magically been blessed with a clear forecast and sunny day free of certain homicidal orange-haired delinquents~

You rested your chin in your palm and inched your hand over your mouth to hide your grin. 

  


~

  


Unfortunately, the predicted clear forecast had included a hundred percent chance of thunderstorms. If you’d know this, you would’ve listened to your brother and stayed home today. 

But sadly, you’re not psychic. You’re just telepathic. 

“Alright class, you may have already heard in the news of the national curriculum change,” [1] Misato began, waving a book back and forth in the air as she spoke, “But I’m required to explain anyways. The government believes we are inadequately preparing you for your future in the workforce!” She slammed the book down. “Can you believe that?” Misato laughed. She fidgeted with her glasses and thought, _As though I don’t work hard enough to drill knowledge into all of you..._ Misato resumed speaking. “Anyways, you are all required to complete a yearlong project covering an approved topic and culminating in arranging the school-wide festival at the end of the year, where you will also present the highlights of your findings.” _These poor kids, guinea pigs… ahh, I’ll try to go easy on them—_

Your grin had long-since dropped in mild irritation. If you’d just stayed in France with Mother, you could’ve avoided this project. _Please don’t let it be a major part of our grade._

“It’s supposed to represent fifty percent of your final grade,” Misato had begun to pass out papers concerning the project guidelines. “But since this is the first time a change of this scale is being implemented, I’m permitted to adjust that percentage as I see fit. As long as you work hard to represent the school well and complete your project, I’ll keep the percentage down—ah! Kurosaki-san, how good of you to join us!” Misato waved the scowling orange-haired teenager in. “Since you’re up here, you can pick your project partner first.” 

Before disaster strikes, flocks of birds will fly to safety. Elephants, in their determination, will break loose of their zoo pens and race to the highest vantage point – safely avoiding the rising waters. Tigers, bears, penguins, cats, dogs, mice and more – all animals with a sense of self-preservation – flee as though pulled away by a magnetic call. 

You are no animal. You are no psychic. You are only telepathic and suffering from another threatening migraine involving _kill kill kill I’m gonna kill them all_ and _shut the fuck up Hollow!_ and _now where did I put that hat—ah, here!_

Breathing. Breathing in. Breathing out. Counting to ten. Breathing in. You concentrated on these, and then when Misato spoke, on her bubbling voice. 

“I’ve decided to try a different way of pairing up partners today. This’ll be fun, won’t it class?” She called, and a solemn murmur of ‘yes sensei’ surged forth. “Here, Kurosaki-san. Pull out a piece of a paper. The name on that paper will be your partner for the yearlong project.” Despite Kurosaki’s harsh scowl, Misato smiled and offered him the hat filled with paper scraps. 

After a beat, Kurosaki pulled out a name. 

_Killkillki—oooh King_ the crackling voice purred and you thought quickly of the cat on the courtyard wall and your brother’s burnt cooking and _King~ this will be so much fun~_ and that voice dropped to a rumble too intoxicating to ignore and—

_SHUT UP HOLLOW!_

“Kurosaki-san?” Misato prompted. Kurosaki glowered at her, as though she were the source of all the chaotic murderous thoughts tumbling about his head. You couldn’t be sure if he really believed that or not and you’d rather not find out much less hear that erotic voice again – you thought of pi and what number came after four. 

Kurosaki said your name. 

“What?” you snapped, near automatic as you’d reached the seventh pi number. Kurosaki blessed you with his ever-present patented Scowl™. 

“You’re my partner dumbass.”

_No._

_No way._

_No way no way no way no way no way._

It took you a second to realize those were your thoughts. 

It took you another second to parcel out that Kurosaki was thinking of all the ways he could murder a person with a sword named Zangetsu without anyone being the wiser, whilst evaluating all the ways that blood would taste lapped up from flesh—

You were dead. 

You were going to die. 

If you didn’t die immediately, you would probably be a casualty of war, since Kurosaki now thought of starting one or ending one, you really couldn’t be sure. 

You were too busy thinking about how best to convince your older brother to return custody of you to Mother so you could move back to France. Today. 

The cat on the courtyard wall cleaned its left ear one last time and then jumped off, vanishing into the street. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [1] I’ve never been to France or Japan, but that’s what the internet is for! I enjoy learning the cultural differences compared to what I’m familiar with (American education) and then incorporating that into character development. I’ll try to expand on any cultural differences in footer notes, and provide the main links I referenced. 
> 
> If there’s anything I get wrong, or that you feel could be explained better, please let me know~!
> 
> **Curriculums:** In America, they vary from state to state and even school district to school district. But in Japan and France, the curriculum is nationally set. It’s especially strictly adhered to in Japan: every school teaches Math the exact same way at the exact same pace. I made up the curriculum change where High School students are now required to complete a yearlong project because of the wonderful conflict it creates. ;)


	3. (M) Chapter 2: Forecasting Thunderstorms

It seemed as though time had fast-forwarded itself: students zipped by in a beeline for the Hat of Dreadful Partnerships. In the same breath, time lagged to a near halt. Each step a student took lasted ten breaths and each hand inched into the hat at a snail’s pace. 

Between one breath and the next, you heard the way the wind greeted the windows violently, you noted the way the sky darkened like a black and blue bruise, and you counted the seconds you had left to live in the time Kurosaki approached you. 

Then Kurosaki shooed the student beside you – Keigo – away and claimed the seat for himself. He scowled darkly at you. 

You caught the end of Misato’s instructions, “… use this time valuably. Topics will be due for approval next Monday, so consider your options carefully.” 

Kurosaki’s forehead wrinkled with his scowl. His jaw tightened ever so slightly. Before his thoughts could crowd into your head, you thought of every possible interest you had. 

_Animals. Food. French literature. Greek mythology._

“What interests you?” you asked, keeping your tone polite and your expression neutral. A banshee scream clawed up your throat. You swallowed it back down. 

You were beginning to wonder if maybe his scowl wasn’t so much a facial tick as a resting expression, like a neutral expression for you… or anyone else sane and normal and non-homicidal. 

_Tell him King. Go on~_

_SHUT. UP._

_Share yer interests,_ the distorted voice laughed. 

_SHUT. UP._

_hahaha—Tell him about th’ fighting! Tell him about cutting off Llargo’s arm! That was so much fun wasn’t it_ King _~?_

_SHUT UP. SHUT UP. SHUT UP. SHUT UP._

_Oh King~ ask him about_ his _interests…_

The voices overlapped, one dripping sensually down the spine and the other ripping at walls and doors and breaking through window glass with frightening bodily velocity. 

_Ask him to play~_ the voice laughed again, the sound bordering on maniacal.

_SHUT UP HOLLOW_

“Kurosaki?” your voice didn’t tremble. It didn’t squeak, it didn’t break, it didn’t stutter. It spoke at a volume a tad quieter than normal, given, but one couldn’t really be blamed when they were valiantly attempting to stem the onslaught of explicit and erotic visuals suddenly pounding against their skull—

_FUCKING DAMNIT STOP THAT HOLLOW. I’M NOT DOING THAT SHIT._

_Come on~ King_ purring, purring and trailing hands down spines that looked too much like your own and down legs that were definitely way too familiar and _jus’ think how pretty that flesh will look with a bite or ten~_

“Kurosaki,” you deadpanned. 

The voices stopped. 

Why couldn’t you block them out better? 

_No. Don’t get distracted. That gives him too much time to think_ , you thought and plowed on. 

“We have to come up with a topic that we’re both interested in, or at least mildly content with exploring, since it’s a big chunk of our grade and a bigger chunk of our time,” you were blabbering. This wasn’t your thing but for Kurosaki, just to shut up those inane voices and the things they did to you—you’d blabber until your voice went hoarse and then some. “We’ve got the whole week to think about it so maybe we should just each take the next two days to compile a list of topics we’d be interested in pursuing. Then, we can compare lists and—”

_How about fucking?_

Derailment threatened your train of thought. Kurosaki’s had already crashed into a building. He blasted through the other side wielding a sword and jumped at a cackling albino. 

_Ya can’t deny it in here King_ , the way Kurosaki thought “King” made it sound like a curse half the time. _I know what ya feel! I’m yer instincts! Admit it. Ya want to tap tha’ as—_

“Work to a consensus!” That was unnecessarily loud but it shut the voices up for another moment. You forged onward, “On what type of project we should tackle.” 

A series of images involving a toned chest pressing you against the floor, hands pressing against your waist—

“Do you agree?” you demanded. 

You could feel your nails digging into your palms, the pinching sensation making you recall the way black nails wanted to dig—your shoulders felt sore and tense in the way they do after having sat hunched for too long and _gods_ you could use a massage right now, just the massage Kurosa—his ears were red. You thought of Rudolf the Red-Nosed Reindeer and tried getting the song stuck in your head but it was easier to see how the muscles in his neck tightened with the way he clenched his jaw and wonder what it would taste—

A blue tongue lapping blood—

“I agree,” Kurosaki said but by the look in his eyes he clearly wasn’t paying attention to his words. He was thinking about murder of the tenth degree. 

“Wonderful. Go back to your seat and think quietly to yourself,” you ordered, a bit harshly, “Now.” Realizing how rude that sounded, you quickly added, “Please.” 

Kurosaki only scowled, shoved himself up, and walked tensely over to his desk. He walked like a penguin that could no longer wobble from side to side, but had to teeter forward step-by-step. 

If you could think to yourself right now, you would think that he walked like a man with a painful hard-on, but you couldn’t think to yourself and you couldn’t let other people’s thoughts crowd into your head. 

Those images from earlier had seared themselves into your mind. They replayed on loops with husky voices caressing your name and toned arms curving around your waist and—

 _I like animals and culinary and French literature and sometimes photography if pressed,_ you chanted mentally and pulled out a piece of paper. Instead of just writing what you were interested in, you wrote every possible topic you could feasibly cover from the medieval era to kingdom come. 

A voice cackled against the back of your ear, the breaths hot and moist against your neck. 

Outside, lightning lit the bruised sky and thunder chased it with a window-shaking call. 

_Another day_ , you grit your teeth, _another day another day another day._

~

You had class with Kurosaki and his maniacal personality all day. If you had still been in France, attending a _lycée_ , then for your _terminale_ year you could’ve picked a specialty area to focus on and hopefully avoided ending up in the same group as Kurosaki (assuming his specialty would not have been literature and if it had been you would’ve made small sacrifices and selected marketing instead; then again, you’d only had the option of a literature or science path in Karakura High School and you’d picked literature… _stupid Kurosaki having the same interests_ ). Absolute worst case scenario, you could’ve avoided him during the long breaks between classes. [1]

Japan did not offer this luxury. 

_King~_

_SHUT UP DAMNIT. I’m trying to concentrate!_

Focusing on breathing stopped working after about Modern Literature, in which Kurosaki had ceased word-thinking in favor of mental images involving various way-too-familiar ( _thatisnotme, thatisnotme, thatisnotme_ became your new mantra) body parts bent over various desks and various swords being shoved into various chalk-white throats. 

By World History, laser-focusing on the teacher’s thoughts had ceased to provide you with a clear-headed lesson environment. It had also become easier to parcel out that there were two main Kurosaki personalities: Colorful and Albino Kurosaki. It was a wonder that it had taken you the past month to get this far—but you could’ve sworn it was easier at the start of the school year to block out his thoughts. 

With frightful certainty, you could pinpoint that Colorful Kurosaki aspired to kill Albino Kurosaki, whereas Albino Kurosaki aspired to kill everyone and ravage a certain new project partner ( _thatisnotme, thatisnotme, thatisnotme_ ; your mantra slowly crumpled away in time to the rising question of, _do I want that to be me?_ ). Albino Kurosaki provided explicit, detailed, and breathless imagery on all the wonderful activities Colorful Kurosaki denied himself the pleasure of. Colorful Kurosaki provided explicit, detailed, and bloody imagery on all the pleasant ways he would like to shove his sword in Albino Kurosaki’s stomach. Albino Kurosaki would add in imagery of lapping up the blood with a very blue tongue, and a part of you would realize you were drying your palms on your uniform’s pant legs while another part tried to think of the exact definition of ‘morbid fascination’ and if that definition translated to ‘morbid fetish’…

Maybe one of the Kurosakis was saner than the other one. Maybe you should help them seek professional assistance. 

_This is ludicrous,_ you thought to yourself and tried to concentrate on when World War II ended. _They’re both nuts. If one persona doesn’t kill the other first, they’ll both kill me, and one of them may—_ you couldn’t even think it. You didn’t want to think about it. Really. _Really._ You assured yourself for the millionth time that the distorted voice did not come across as sensual in any way. It did not turn the butterflies in your stomach into little fireballs. It did not cause you to fidget around your seat uncomfortably for want of friction. It did not make you anticipate every new visual stimulus and catalogue it for later review. 

These declarations did little to assure you, particularly between strobe flashes of grinding hips and puffs of hot air against your neck and teeth grazing—

“… the Treaty of Peace with Japan, Kurosaki-san?” The teacher pointed at Kurosaki. 

He stared back at her blankly, having been too preoccupied with a mental battle to pay attention. The ensuing psychological silence caused such bliss that you raised your hand to offer backup. 

“America ratified the treaty in March 1952, and Japan regained full sovereignty in April of the same year.” 

“Very good~!” The teacher crowed and whirled back to the board. 

Out of the corner of your eye, you saw Kurosaki glance over at you. His brain activity picked up. That stupid battle resumed. The onslaught of visual stimuli intensified, and you decided you would never offer backup again if this is what resulted of it. 

_Liar._

~

When lunch arrived, you fled to another class under the guise of ‘really needing advice from this teacher!’ Misato bought it and thankfully the Kurosaki posse ate in their usual rooftop location. Or, at least, some location potentially indoors given that the thunderstorm had finally released a torrent of freezing rain. Although it was short-lived, you enjoyed the mental reprieve to the fullest. Even the rattling windows could not disturb your peace. _At least without him in the room it’s a lot easier to block everyone else out,_ you thought followed closely by another, _Why can’t I block that maniac out?!_

~

“Hey, Ichigo—” Rukia began, reaching a hand out to his arm. 

“I’m fine!” Ichigo snapped. He pulled away from her with such violence that Rukia snatched her hand to her chest as though she’d been injured somehow. She scowled promptly at him. 

“Clearly you’re not fine if this is how you’re acting! Bastard!” She whacked him on the head. 

Ichigo was not in the mood today. 

He was not in the mood for the stupid Hollow’s sick imagination. 

He was not in the mood to be partnered on a yearlong project with the source of his Hollow’s spiked activity. 

He was not in the mood to think. 

He was not in the mood today! 

Unfortunately, this resulted in an argument between Rukia and Ichigo that lasted the entire lunch period. This was the ninth such one this month alone. From the corner of his vision, Ichigo could see how Uryū and Chad ignored the way he and Rukia bickered and couldn’t help but be thankful for all the frivolous arguments they’d had in the past. It gave him a reason, an excuse, a justification for his odd behavior—and _shit_ had he tried hard to hide the way this fucking Hollow affected him but—

Orihime was giving him a look. It was the usual worried look she wore and the one Ichigo had grown accustomed to seeing and alleviating. She was the only one that could sense – _and how the hell could she even do that?_ – his changing moods and the causes of them. He needed to do something to distract her from it, otherwise she’d say something to Rukia and then shit would hit the fan. 

Ichigo pretended to grow disinterested with their argument and asked Orihime about the peanut butter and jelly rice balls she’d made for lunch today. This launched her into a passionate reenactment of what inspired the recipe, how to make it, and ultimately tasting it. 

They tasted disgusting and the slimy-sticky texture reminded him too clearly of physical activities that resulted in the same slippery, almost sticky, sensation. At least the topic distracted everyone. 

Everyone except his fucking Hollow. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [1] **Class Schedules** : So in America, we go to a four-year high school (unless you live in Washington state or other odd school districts where they’ve separated the schools into a three-year junior high and a three-year high school). We (students) select what classes we want to take throughout the day and change them each semester. We sometimes coordinate with our friends to try and get the same classes at the same time together. Teachers stay in the same classroom all day and decorate their room like it’s their bedroom with posters and other odd paraphilia. In a typical school, there is a five to ten minute break in-between your either four, six or eight classes of the day (some schools only have four 1 hr 30 min slots for lessons; others have up to eight 55 min slots for lessons). This break is used to get to the next class, use the bathroom, and catch up on the gossip-mill. Lunch is roughly 45 minutes and in the cafeteria. Some kids hide in the library but you can’t eat in there. The End.
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> In France, the _lycée_ is the equivalent of a high school for Americans but only three years ( _Seconde_ ; sophomore year. _Première_ ; junior year. _Terminale_ ; senior year). Students can select an area to focus on in their last two years and they’ll end up with a group of other students that have chosen that same focus. That group goes to all the same classes together. There is no variation in that group’s schedule. The teachers also don’t get permanent rooms; they switch to different rooms for lessons as well. However, there are long breaks (think hours) in-between classes; students hang out outside during these breaks or in other school areas.
> 
> In Japan, like in France, high school is the last three years and students remain with their homeroom. They don’t even move classrooms. The teacher moves to a new class when lesson topics switch. Students eat their lunch together in the classroom – except in high school students are finally given the option to eat elsewhere like the roof. Some high schools provide cafeteria lunch, others require you to bring your own bento box. Student don’t drive to school because they’re not generally allowed to (too young, laws, stuff). They all wear uniforms. When in public, they have to behave in certain ways as representatives of the school (ex: no chewing gum in public, giving their seat to the elderly, etc.). They do not get extended breaks between classes.In sum: American schools = different classmates. French schools = you pick a group and stay with those classmates. Japanese schools = you are stuck with your homeroom classmates all day long (except for PE, at which point the girls go off to take Home Economics for half the PE time). 


	4. (F) Chapter 2: Forecasting Thunderstorms

It seemed as though time had fast-forwarded itself: students zipped by in a beeline for the Hat of Dreadful Partnerships. In the same breath, time lagged to a near halt. Each step a student took lasted ten breaths and each hand inched into the hat at a snail’s pace. 

Between one breath and the next, you heard the way the wind greeted the windows violently, you noted the way the sky darkened like a black and blue bruise, and you counted the seconds you had left to live in the time Kurosaki approached you. 

Then Kurosaki shooed the student beside you – Keigo – away and claimed the seat for himself. He scowled darkly at you. 

You caught the end of Misato’s instructions, “… use this time valuably. Topics will be due for approval next Monday, so consider your options carefully.” 

Kurosaki’s forehead wrinkled with his scowl. His jaw tightened ever so slightly. Before his thoughts could crowd into your head, you thought of every possible interest you had. 

_Animals. Food. French literature. Greek mythology._

“What interests you?” you asked, keeping your tone polite and your expression neutral. A banshee scream clawed up your throat. You swallowed it back down. 

You were beginning to wonder if maybe his scowl wasn’t so much a facial tick as a resting expression, like a neutral expression for you… or anyone else sane and normal and non-homicidal. 

_Tell her King. Go on~_

_SHUT. UP._

_Share yer interests,_ the distorted voice laughed. 

_SHUT. UP._

_hahaha—Tell her about th’ fighting! Tell her about cutting off Llargo’s arm! That was so much fun wasn’t it_ King _~?_

_SHUT UP. SHUT UP. SHUT UP. SHUT UP._

_Oh King~ ask her about_ her _interests…_

The voices overlapped, one dripping sensually down the spine and the other ripping at walls and doors and breaking through window glass with frightening bodily velocity. 

_Ask her to play~_ the voice laughed again, the sound bordering on maniacal.

_SHUT UP HOLLOW_

“Kurosaki?” your voice didn’t tremble. It didn’t squeak, it didn’t break, it didn’t stutter. It spoke at a volume a tad quieter than normal, given, but one couldn’t really be blamed when they were valiantly attempting to stem the onslaught of explicit and erotic visuals suddenly pounding against their skull—

_FUCKING DAMNIT STOP THAT HOLLOW. I’M NOT DOING THAT SHIT._

_Come on~ King_ purring, purring and trailing hands down spines that looked too much like your own and down legs that were definitely way too familiar and _jus’ think how pretty that flesh will look with a bite or ten~_

“Kurosaki,” you deadpanned. 

The voices stopped. 

Why couldn’t you block them out better? 

_No. Don’t get distracted. That gives him too much time to think_ , you thought and plowed on. 

“We have to come up with a topic that we’re both interested in, or at least mildly content with exploring, since it’s a big chunk of our grade and a bigger chunk of our time,” you were blabbering. This wasn’t your thing but for Kurosaki, just to shut up those inane voices and the things they did to you—you’d blabber until your voice went hoarse and then some. “We’ve got the whole week to think about it so maybe we should just each take the next two days to compile a list of topics we’d be interested in pursuing. Then, we can compare lists and—”

_How about fucking?_

Derailment threatened your train of thought. Kurosaki’s had already crashed into a building. He blasted through the other side wielding a sword and jumped at a cackling albino. 

_Ya can’t deny it in here King_ , the way Kurosaki thought “King” made it sound like a curse half the time. _I know what ya feel! I’m yer instincts! Admit it. Ya want to tap tha’ as—_

“Work to a consensus!” That was unnecessarily loud but it shut the voices up for another moment. You forged onward, “On what type of project we should tackle.” 

A series of images involving a toned chest pressing you against the floor, hands pressing against your waist—

“Do you agree?” you demanded. 

You could feel your nails digging into your palms, the pinching sensation making you recall the way black nails wanted to dig—your shoulders felt sore and tense in the way they do after having sat hunched for too long and _gods_ you could use a massage right now, just the massage Kurosa—his ears were red. You thought of Rudolf the Red-Nosed Reindeer and tried getting the song stuck in your head but it was easier to see how the muscles in his neck tightened with the way he clenched his jaw and wonder what it would taste—

A blue tongue lapping blood—

“I agree,” Kurosaki said but by the look in his eyes he clearly wasn’t paying attention to his words. He was thinking about murder of the tenth degree. 

“Wonderful. Go back to your seat and think quietly to yourself,” you ordered, a bit harshly, “Now.” Realizing how rude that sounded, you quickly added, “Please.” 

Kurosaki only scowled, shoved himself up, and walked tensely over to his desk. He walked like a penguin that could no longer wobble from side to side, but had to teeter forward step-by-step. 

If you could think to yourself right now, you would think that he walked like a man with a painful hard-on, but you couldn’t think to yourself and you couldn’t let other people’s thoughts crowd into your head. 

Those images from earlier had seared themselves into your mind. They replayed on loops with husky voices caressing your name and toned arms curving around your waist and—

 _I like animals and culinary and French literature and sometimes photography if pressed,_ you chanted mentally and pulled out a piece of paper. Instead of just writing what you were interested in, you wrote every possible topic you could feasibly cover from the medieval era to kingdom come. 

A voice cackled against the back of your ear, the breaths hot and moist against your neck. 

Outside, lightning lit the bruised sky and thunder chased it with a window-shaking call. 

_Another day_ , you grit your teeth, _another day another day another day._

~

You had class with Kurosaki and his maniacal personality all day. If you had still been in France, attending a _lycée_ , then for your _terminale_ year you could’ve picked a specialty area to focus on and hopefully avoided ending up in the same group as Kurosaki (assuming his specialty would not have been literature and if it had been you would’ve made small sacrifices and selected marketing instead; then again, you’d only had the option of a literature or science path in Karakura High School and you’d picked literature… _stupid Kurosaki having the same interests_ ). Absolute worst case scenario, you could’ve avoided him during the long breaks between classes. [1]

Japan did not offer this luxury. 

_King~_

_SHUT UP DAMNIT. I’m trying to concentrate!_

Focusing on breathing stopped working after about Modern Literature, in which Kurosaki had ceased word-thinking in favor of mental images involving various way-too-familiar ( _thatisnotme, thatisnotme, thatisnotme_ became your new mantra) body parts bent over various desks and various swords being shoved into various chalk-white throats. 

By World History, laser-focusing on the teacher’s thoughts had ceased to provide you with a clear-headed lesson environment. It had also become easier to parcel out that there were two main Kurosaki personalities: Colorful and Albino Kurosaki. It was a wonder that it had taken you the past month to get this far—but you could’ve sworn it was easier at the start of the school year to block out his thoughts. 

With frightful certainty, you could pinpoint that Colorful Kurosaki aspired to kill Albino Kurosaki, whereas Albino Kurosaki aspired to kill everyone and ravage a certain new project partner ( _thatisnotme, thatisnotme, thatisnotme_ ; your mantra slowly crumpled away in time to the rising question of, _do I want that to be me?_ ). Albino Kurosaki provided explicit, detailed, and breathless imagery on all the wonderful activities Colorful Kurosaki denied himself the pleasure of. Colorful Kurosaki provided explicit, detailed, and bloody imagery on all the pleasant ways he would like to shove his sword in Albino Kurosaki’s stomach. Albino Kurosaki would add in imagery of lapping up the blood with a very blue tongue, and a part of you would realize you were drying your palms on your uniform’s skirt while another part tried to think of the exact definition of ‘morbid fascination’ and if that definition translated to ‘morbid fetish’…

Maybe one of the Kurosakis was saner than the other one. Maybe you should help them seek professional assistance. 

_This is ludicrous,_ you thought to yourself and tried to concentrate on when World War II ended. _They’re both nuts. If one persona doesn’t kill the other first, they’ll both kill me, and one of them may—_ you couldn’t even think it. You didn’t want to think about it. Really. _Really._ You assured yourself for the millionth time that the distorted voice did not come across as sensual in any way. It did not turn the butterflies in your stomach into little fireballs. It did not cause you to fidget around your seat uncomfortably for want of friction. It did not make you anticipate every new visual stimulus and catalogue it for later review. 

These declarations did little to assure you, particularly between strobe flashes of grinding hips and puffs of hot air against your neck and teeth grazing—

“… the Treaty of Peace with Japan, Kurosaki-san?” The teacher pointed at Kurosaki. 

He stared back at her blankly, having been too preoccupied with a mental battle to pay attention. The ensuing psychological silence caused such bliss that you raised your hand to offer backup. 

“America ratified the treaty in March 1952, and Japan regained full sovereignty in April of the same year.” 

“Very good~!” The teacher crowed and whirled back to the board. 

Out of the corner of your eye, you saw Kurosaki glance over at you. His brain activity picked up. That stupid battle resumed. The onslaught of visual stimuli intensified, and you decided you would never offer backup again if this is what resulted of it. 

_Liar._

~

When lunch arrived, you fled to another class under the guise of ‘really needing advice from this teacher!’ Misato bought it and thankfully the Kurosaki posse ate in their usual rooftop location. Or, at least, some location potentially indoors given that the thunderstorm had finally released a torrent of freezing rain. Although it was short-lived, you enjoyed the mental reprieve to the fullest. Even the rattling windows could not disturb your peace. _At least without him in the room it’s a lot easier to block everyone else out,_ you thought followed closely by another, _Why can’t I block that maniac out?!_

~

“Hey, Ichigo—” Rukia began, reaching a hand out to his arm. 

“I’m fine!” Ichigo snapped. He pulled away from her with such violence that Rukia snatched her hand to her chest as though she’d been injured somehow. She scowled promptly at him. 

“Clearly you’re not fine if this is how you’re acting! Bastard!” She whacked him on the head. 

Ichigo was not in the mood today. 

He was not in the mood for the stupid Hollow’s sick imagination. 

He was not in the mood to be partnered on a yearlong project with the source of his Hollow’s spiked activity. 

He was not in the mood to think. 

He was not in the mood today! 

Unfortunately, this resulted in an argument between Rukia and Ichigo that lasted the entire lunch period. This was the ninth such one this month alone. From the corner of his vision, Ichigo could see how Uryū and Chad ignored the way he and Rukia bickered and couldn’t help but be thankful for all the frivolous arguments they’d had in the past. It gave him a reason, an excuse, a justification for his odd behavior—and _shit_ had he tried hard to hide the way this fucking Hollow affected him but—

Orihime was giving him a look. It was the usual worried look she wore and the one Ichigo had grown accustomed to seeing and alleviating. She was the only one that could sense – _and how the hell could she even do that?_ – his changing moods and the causes of them. He needed to do something to distract her from it, otherwise she’d say something to Rukia and then shit would hit the fan. 

Ichigo pretended to grow disinterested with their argument and asked Orihime about the peanut butter and jelly rice balls she’d made for lunch today. This launched her into a passionate reenactment of what inspired the recipe, how to make it, and ultimately tasting it. 

They tasted disgusting and the slimy-sticky texture reminded him too clearly of physical activities that resulted in the same slippery, almost sticky, sensation. At least the topic distracted everyone. 

Everyone except his fucking Hollow. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [1] **Class Schedules** : So in America, we go to a four-year high school (unless you live in Washington state or other odd school districts where they’ve separated the schools into a three-year junior high and a three-year high school). We (students) select what classes we want to take throughout the day and change them each semester. We sometimes coordinate with our friends to try and get the same classes at the same time together. Teachers stay in the same classroom all day and decorate their room like it’s their bedroom with posters and other odd paraphilia. In a typical school, there is a five to ten minute break in-between your either four, six or eight classes of the day (some schools only have four 1 hr 30 min slots for lessons; others have up to eight 55 min slots for lessons). This break is used to get to the next class, use the bathroom, and catch up on the gossip-mill. Lunch is roughly 45 minutes and in the cafeteria. Some kids hide in the library but you can’t eat in there. The End.
> 
>  
> 
> In France, the _lycée_ is the equivalent of a high school for Americans but only three years ( _Seconde_ ; sophomore year. _Première_ ; junior year. _Terminale_ ; senior year). Students can select an area to focus on in their last two years and they’ll end up with a group of other students that have chosen that same focus. That group goes to all the same classes together. There is no variation in that group’s schedule. The teachers also don’t get permanent rooms; they switch to different rooms for lessons as well. However, there are long breaks (think hours) in-between classes; students hang out outside during these breaks or in other school areas.
> 
> In Japan, like in France, high school is the last three years and students remain with their homeroom. They don’t even move classrooms. The teacher moves to a new class when lesson topics switch. Students eat their lunch together in the classroom – except in high school students are finally given the option to eat elsewhere like the roof. Some high schools provide cafeteria lunch, others require you to bring your own bento box. Student don’t drive to school because they’re not generally allowed to (too young, laws, stuff). They all wear uniforms. When in public, they have to behave in certain ways as representatives of the school (ex: no chewing gum in public, giving their seat to the elderly, etc.). They do not get extended breaks between classes.In sum: American schools = different classmates. French schools = you pick a group and stay with those classmates. Japanese schools = you are stuck with your homeroom classmates all day long (except for PE, at which point the girls go off to take Home Economics for half the PE time). 


	5. (M) Chapter 3: The Battle that Never Ends

The next two days passed too quickly and too slowly for Ichigo’s liking. Too quickly, as each wasted moment spent trying to silence his Hollow proved futile; too slowly for his self-assigned deadline to pass so he could go back to not-obsessively-watching the various borderline-panicked expressions that flit across his project partner’s face. Ichigo had skipped classes on both these days and used the lesson time for more valuable endeavors—like making his fucking Hollow _shut the hell up!_

The Hollow cackled merrily. He constantly cackled. Constantly laughed. Like the too cheerful for the goddamn hour of the day morning song birds. _Forget it King, I ain’t leavin’ ya alone till ya accept it._ He brought up images of screwing their new project partner against one of the sideways buildings, of hiking his shirt up to twist around his wrists, of lodging their zanpakutō through the wound up shirt and leaving an expanse of delicious skin to taste and scrape—

Ichigo shot off another Getsuga Tenshō blast into the desert training ground under the Vizard warehouse, intentionally going wide on Shinji. Sweat coated Ichigo’s back, arms, and chest making his uniform cling unpleasantly to his body. He hadn’t fought hard enough to justify the amount of sweat on him. Normally Hiyori would train with him, but Shinji had insisted on being his sparring partner today for not entirely explained reasons. 

The shot did little to deter the Hollow from filling up their shared mental space with more provocative activities. 

“That was lame.” Shinji called. “Are you even trying anymore?” 

“What the hell do you think?!” Ichigo shouted back, trying to wrangle his Hollow under control whilst battling Shinji. Battling Shinji involved less turn-by-turn attacks and more Ichigo charging and destroying the desert rock towers while Shinji kept a respectable and safe distance, avoided each attack, and only really circled around Ichigo like a fucking nattering squirrel. It frustrated Ichigo as much as the stupid Hollow’s endless banter. 

_It’s either this_ , the Hollow purred and flashed another vignette of their classmate hot and flustered underneath them, _Or this King._ This time, the imagery switched to a battlefield. Unmoving bodies littered the cracked and crumbling concrete street. Their faces were blotched out, their bodies covered in blood. Although they were unrecognizable, Ichigo understood that they represented everyone and anyone. None of them were breathing. 

The sight was enough to pull Ichigo into the sideways world; it was enough to make him barrel after the Hollow with a savage scream. The Hollow only laughed like the psychopathic maniac he was. He dodged Ichigo’s attack. 

“That’s it King! Let yer instincts rule! Follow them!” He blocked Ichigo’s downward strike and the following attack. 

Ichigo felt his muscles straining to push fast enough, hard enough, soon enough for each following sword swing. The sweat on him became justified with each strike. It belonged there because of fighting, not because of _those other things._ Fighting his Hollow satisfied the insatiable itch that fighting Shinji couldn’t scratch. He didn’t have to worry about being too strong for his Hollow, about squishing the bastard flat or even accidentally crushing his spine beyond Orihime’s healing capabilities. For each strike, each step forward, each hit, his Hollow met him dead on—and pushed _back_. When Ichigo sliced the Hollow’s forearm, it healed and next Ichigo found his shoulder bleeding badly from the Hollow’s attack. It hurt and stung in the way only a wound from his Hollow could, like it burned his blood and didn’t just cut his flesh. But the wound healed just as quickly as it was inflicted. Dried blood remained, mixing in with the sweat on his skin and leaving Ichigo feeling dirty in a way that was _okay_ because this was _fighting_. 

They fought for an indefinite amount of time, the Hollow taunting him endlessly with quips about thrones, horses, fucking and more—all of which Ichigo tuned out. The Hollow tried to stab his stomach and Ichigo jumped back. He forgot about Shinji in the real world and the potential that he was fighting a hollowfied Ichigo. The Hollow swung a hard uppercut, scraping Ichigo’s forehead. Blood blocked his vision. Ichigo didn’t consider how this would be the first time he’d gone into an uncontrolled hollowfied form since losing his Shinigami powers and then regaining them. The Hollow shunpo’d at him with a series of short strikes. Ichigo didn’t think about the stupid words pouring out of his mouth. He didn’t reflect on how the Hollow had gotten louder and more abrasive each time Ichigo looked at or talked to or even thought about the new student that had become his yearlong project partner. 

“Damnit, just SHUT THE HELL UP!” Ichigo connected with the Hollow’s arm. He sustained little more than a surface blood wound. The Hollow smirked. 

“Heh. No.” The Hollow tossed his hands up in an off-handed shrug, “Ya don’t listen to words, _King_ ,” he pointed his sword at Ichigo’s chest. “But eventually ya’ll learn: ya can’t suppress yer instincts _forever_.” 

Ichigo cursed himself. He cursed his Hollow. He cursed his project partner. He cursed Rukia for stabbing him with the special Shinigami-power-restoring sword Urahara had made. He cursed his hormones. He cursed whatever the reason was for his project partner moving to Karakura town. He cursed himself again for good measure. 

Then he attacked the Hollow. 

They fought until they collapsed in exhaustion. 

Ichigo woke some hours later to Hiyori’s face glaring down at him, the abandoned building’s crumbling ceiling a matching dark backdrop to her expression. 

“You need to get that Hollow under control.” Shinji commented in his stupidly bored tone from some dark, dank corner. 

“Didn’t we go through this already?” Hiyori kicked him and Ichigo growled, snatching up her foot. “What’d you do to mess up all that training, huh?” 

“Fuck if I know!” Ichigo yelled as he rose. He used the leverage gained from holding Hiyori’s foot to knock her off-balance and shove her across the floor. Hiyori cartwheeled back upright and rushed at him with a war cry. Ichigo batted her away as he would a pesky fly. 

He was too strong for this kind of training to help him anymore, Ichigo realized. _Damnit all_. 

“Have you considered talking to him?” Lisa asked. This paused everyone. She adjusted her glasses comically. “What? Don’t look at me like that. Sometimes talking helps. Especially after you’ve beaten the crap out of them.” 

Ichigo considered her words for a full minute. 

“Fuck that shit. I’m going home. I have homework to do.” Ichigo waved a backwards farewell over his head. “Thanks for nothing.” 

Shinji yelled something rude after him, along the lines of ‘shit-brats’ and ‘don’t you know how to say ‘thank you’!’ but Ichigo ignored him. The Hollow in him was quiet for once. Ichigo bet it was more a result of exhaustion from their two-day fighting than a case of giving up. When his Hollow woke up, the battle of wills would resume. 

Ichigo just needed to figure out how to deal with him this time around. 

~

The next two days passed too quickly. 

For one, Kurosaki skipped both days. 

For two, Kurosaki _skipped_ both days. 

For three, _Kurosaki skipped both days_. 

By the end of those two days, a rare grin and pain-free expression had made themselves home on your face. 

So when you slid open the homeroom door on the third day to a splash of orange amidst the sea of brunettes, those blissful expressions abandoned ship. You wheeled around on your heel with every intention of leaving before the tornado hit. 

You missed your cue by five beats. 

_Kiiiiiing_ , a croaking voice whinnied up ten scales and back down, and then a torrent of visuals swamped you hard: hands splayed across your hips, nails digging in, teeth scrapping against your neck, arms tugging you back into a too-warm chest, hips grinding— _touch him an’ I’ll shuddup_. 

Silence arrived so abruptly, the visuals ceasing completely, that it left you reeling for something to anchor yourself in, reeling for something to drown out all other thoughts, reeling from the lack of balance. The doorframe lent its support in your time of need. It would be here all week, and all next week too if more support was required. 

Before you could contemplate the silence and what it meant (much less what Kurosaki’s last thought meant!!), a hand gripped your shoulder. You almost jumped through the doorway, but you could barely stand on your own two legs and the hand apparently wasn’t content with just grabbing you. It pushed you forward—and you could see your face greeting the floor in three, two—the hand promptly heaved you along after a tall, lean, orange-headed body. 

“K-Kurosaki! What the fuck?!” you tried clawing onto the doorframe but you’d again missed your mark by five or so beats. Kurosaki had already begun dragging you down the hallway to your death. 

_Oh shit._

_Oh shit. Oh shit. Oh shit._

You had qualms with death. Qualms that you would rather not face today. 

“Kurosaki, stop dragging me!” 

“Then fucking walk!” He snapped, suddenly in your face. 

“Fine, fine!” you held your hands up in a placating manner—and to shove Kurosaki back a step or ten so if you needed to run for your life you’d make it at least as far as those steps. 

Kurosaki still gripped your right shoulder tightly. Too tightly. You could feel bruises forming under that grip. His gaze flickered on you as you ground your teeth together. The grip relaxed. 

Kurosaki stood there uncertainly. 

_This is awkward_ , your brain supplied helpfully. 

He didn’t seem to know what to do with his hand – leave it there? Take it off? Kurosaki’s gaze flickered back and forth over you and his hand connecting the two of you. When you tried to shake his hand off, he only frowned at you and put it back. _What the fuck? Is he going to kill me?_ He wasn’t thinking anything. This disturbed you more than the hand. 

“Kurosaki, please refrain from needlessly bruising me,” you requested dryly. He scowled at you and finally let your shoulder go. 

_Ya can do better than tha’ King~_

_SHUT UP._

Oh thank god, the thinking returned. Your knees almost gave out from under you in relief. Sure, it provided you with an endless source of migraines and adrenaline rushes and all sorts of other unwanted bodily reactions—but at least now you stood a better chance of knowing _when_ exactly he intended to stab or bite you. 

_Maybe he’s a zombie?_ You snorted a laugh down. Kurosaki gave you a funny look and you covered your mouth self-consciously to hide the humor that threatened to come through. 

“S-sorry,” you muttered. “Uh… so what did you want?” _Let’s tread carefully from here_ , you decided. 

Kurosaki’s scowled remained fixed. It reminded you of all the creepy mascaraed-masks used in movies to decorate haunted houses. 

_Okay, this isn’t going so well_. You eyed him warily, your hand still covering your mouth. At least you weren’t the only one thinking this was awkward, what with the string of curses going through his mind. But that was also a normal occurrence, like his scowling, so you couldn’t be sure if it was a reaction to the current situation or a byproduct of his delirium. You opened your mouth to add something else, but Kurosaki beat you to the punchline. 

“Let’s work on the project more after school.” 

_Shit fuck no no no fuck not that godfuckingdamnit why’d you say that?_

_hehehe~_

_SHUT UP SHUT UP SHUT UP this is all your fault! FUCK_

“Uhh…” you mumbled, wide-eyed and hand fortunately covering your gapping mouth. Apparently that wasn’t the right reaction—but come on! Who could blame you when you heard those kinds of thoughts?!—because a panicked expression flitted across Kurosaki’s face before his scowl returned in greater force. 

“Look, if you’re not going to do your share of the work, then we can work separately.” 

_Maybe that would be a good idea_ , you mused at the same time as Albino Kurosaki freaked out. A flash raced through your mind of an unrelenting strangling motion involving the Albino Kurosaki’s pale hands around the Colorful Kurosaki’s neck. 

“Nonono!” you quickly held your hands up again, “That’s not it.” _Please don’t kill the other persona yet. Please don’t kill the other persona yet_. You started calculating how fast you would need to run to get away. But then again, Albino Kurosaki only wanted to play. _He also wants to kill everyone else_ , you noted. _But Colorful Kurosaki wants to kill you_ , brain reminded. 

Shit. His bipolar personality disorder was contagious! 

_No, no no stupid! You always argue with yourself. It’s just you in here!_ Your brain, or you, kindly reassured yourself. _Oh thank god._

Kurosaki was staring at you. Er, he was glaring at you. He was glaring through you, to be exact, and waging a mental death match. 

“Kurosaki?” _No, no, no! Take your chance! Run!_ You cursed yourself. “It’s just that I promised my brother I’d attend his work dinner tonight.” 

“Oh,” his golden gaze zeroed in on you. _Gold? Aren’t his eyes brown?_ He blinked, and they were brown again. 

Your panic reached whole new levels of _I’m fucked._

 _He’s possessed! He’s fucking possessed! I didn’t even know that was a thing! A possible thing! FUUUU—nonono._ You tried to reassure yourself and rubbed your eyes. _You’re just tired and stressed from all this over-mental stimulation. He’s bipolar. That’s all. And his eyes maybe are those hazel-colored ones that change in different lighting. Yeah, yeah, that’s it_. You decided. That’s totally it. Kurosaki has hazel eyes. 

“Alright, well, I finished my list.” Kurosaki ignored your odd eye-rubbing, or maybe just didn’t notice that was unusual behavior for you. “Are you free tomorrow?” 

Shit. You did not want to be free tomorrow. _Just meet in a public place with lots of witnesses so he can kill them first_. That’s a mean thought, you mentally frowned at yourself. Self-preservation thinking sucks. “Yeah,” you sighed. “I’m free tomorrow. Let’s meet at a café or something.” 

“Café?” 

“Yeah, the atmosphere helps me concentrate.” You were a grade-A pro at lying your ass off. Coffee shops gave you major migraines. Caffeine enabled you to hear twice as far and much, whether you wanted to or not. 

But it had lots of traffic and hopefully you would live. 

_Do it King do it do it do it do it_

_Fuck you. I’m not going to a damn coffee shop! I hate coffee!_

_ARGHH!_

Albino Kurosaki snapped and attempted to strangle Colorful Kurosaki again. 

“How about the cat café?” You asked. You liked cats. According to mythology, cats were also supposed to be capable of scaring off demonic possession or sensing if someone was truly possessed. 

Kurosaki stared at you like you’d grown a second head. You imagined you had and this odd physical phenomenon would disrupt his attempts to stab you long enough that you could flee. 

“No!” 

“Fine, then let’s just trade lists now and regroup during class tomorrow.” 

Albino Kurosaki began imaging stabbing several of your classmates. Colorful Kurosaki appeared to cave at the visuals. 

“Okay, okay! Let’s go to the café in the Mitsumiya district.” 

You pulled up your mental map and remembered it was the district next to the one the school was in. _That’s conveniently close._

“Okay. Sounds good,” you agreed. “I’m going to class now.” You promptly wheeled around and zipped for homeroom in a totally not hasty retreat. You didn’t even bother checking if Kurosaki had agreed to a coffee or cat café. 

As you fled, you could feel Kurosaki’s eyes searing little holes in your back. Albino Kurosaki grinned. _Heh. This is gonna be fun~_


	6. (F) Chapter 3: The Battle that Never Ends

The next two days passed too quickly and too slowly for Ichigo’s liking. Too quickly, as each wasted moment spent trying to silence his Hollow proved futile; too slowly for his self-assigned deadline to pass so he could go back to not-obsessively-watching the various borderline-panicked expressions that flit across his project partner’s face. Ichigo had skipped classes on both these days and used the lesson time for more valuable endeavors—like making his fucking Hollow _shut the hell up!_

The Hollow cackled merrily. He constantly cackled. Constantly laughed. Like the too cheerful for the goddamn hour of the day morning song birds. _Forget it King, I ain’t leavin’ ya alone till ya accept it._ He brought up images of screwing their new project partner against one of the sideways buildings, of unbuttoning and hiking her shirt up to twist around her wrists, of lodging their zanpakutō through the wound up shirt and leaving an expanse of delicious skin to taste and scrape—

Ichigo shot off another Getsuga Tenshō blast into the desert training ground under the Vizard warehouse, intentionally going wide on Shinji. Sweat coated Ichigo’s back, arms, and chest making his uniform cling unpleasantly to his body and his skin had taken on a near-permanent red hue from his face down. He hadn’t fought hard enough to justify the amount of sweat on him and the sun down here was fake, so it wasn’t like he’d been sunburnt. Normally Hiyori would train with him, but Shinji had insisted on being his sparring partner today for not entirely explained reasons. 

The shot did little to deter the Hollow from filling up their shared mental space with more provocative activities. 

“That was lame.” Shinji called. “Are you even trying anymore?” 

“What the hell do you think?!” Ichigo shouted back, trying to wrangle his Hollow under control whilst battling Shinji. Battling Shinji involved less turn-by-turn attacks and more Ichigo charging and destroying the desert rock towers while Shinji kept a respectable and safe distance, avoided each attack, and only really circled around Ichigo like a fucking nattering squirrel. It frustrated Ichigo as much as the stupid Hollow’s endless banter. 

_It’s either this_ , the Hollow purred and flashed another vignette of their classmate hot and flustered underneath them, _Or this King._ This time, the imagery switched to a battlefield. Unmoving bodies littered the cracked and crumbling concrete street. Their faces were blotched out, their bodies covered in blood. Although they were unrecognizable, Ichigo understood that they represented everyone and anyone. None of them were breathing. 

The sight was enough to pull Ichigo into the sideways world; it was enough to make him barrel after the Hollow with a savage scream. The Hollow only laughed like the psychopathic maniac he was. He dodged Ichigo’s attack. 

“That’s it King! Let yer instincts rule! Follow them!” He blocked Ichigo’s downward strike and the following attack. 

Ichigo felt his muscles straining to push fast enough, hard enough, soon enough for each following sword swing. The sweat on him became justified with each strike. It belonged there because of fighting, not because of _those other things._ The red flush died down as well, as he stopped thinking about embarrassing imagery. Fighting his Hollow satisfied the insatiable itch that fighting Shinji couldn’t scratch. He didn’t have to worry about being too strong for his Hollow, about squishing the bastard flat or even accidentally crushing his spine beyond Orihime’s healing capabilities. For each strike, each step forward, each hit, his Hollow met him dead on—and pushed _back_. When Ichigo sliced the Hollow’s forearm, it healed and next Ichigo found his shoulder bleeding badly from the Hollow’s attack. It hurt and stung in the way only a wound from his Hollow could, like it burned his blood and didn’t just cut his flesh. But the wound healed just as quickly as it was inflicted. Dried blood remained, mixing in with the sweat on his skin and leaving Ichigo feeling dirty in a way that was _okay_ because this was _fighting_. 

They fought for an indefinite amount of time, the Hollow taunting him endlessly with quips about thrones, horses, fucking and more—all of which Ichigo tuned out. The Hollow tried to stab his stomach and Ichigo jumped back. He forgot about Shinji in the real world and the potential that he was fighting a hollowfied Ichigo. The Hollow swung a hard uppercut, scraping Ichigo’s forehead. Blood blocked his vision. Ichigo didn’t consider how this would be the first time he’d gone into an uncontrolled hollowfied form since losing his Shinigami powers and then regaining them. The Hollow shunpo’d at him with a series of short strikes. Ichigo didn’t think about the stupid words pouring out of his mouth. He didn’t reflect on how the Hollow had gotten louder and more abrasive each time Ichigo looked at or talked to or even thought about the new student that had become his yearlong project partner. 

“Damnit, just SHUT THE HELL UP!” Ichigo connected with the Hollow’s arm. He sustained little more than a surface blood wound. The Hollow smirked. 

“Heh. No.” The Hollow tossed his hands up in an off-handed shrug, “Ya don’t listen to words, _King_ ,” he pointed his sword at Ichigo’s chest. “But eventually ya’ll learn: ya can’t suppress yer instincts _forever_.” 

Ichigo cursed himself. He cursed his Hollow. He cursed his project partner. He cursed Rukia for stabbing him with the special Shinigami-power-restoring sword Urahara had made. He cursed his hormones. He cursed whatever the reason was for his project partner moving to Karakura town. He cursed himself again for good measure. 

Then he attacked the Hollow. 

They fought until they collapsed in exhaustion. 

Ichigo woke some hours later to Hiyori’s face glaring down at him, the abandoned building’s crumbling ceiling a matching dark backdrop to her expression. 

“You need to get that Hollow under control.” Shinji commented in his stupidly bored tone from some dark, dank corner. 

“Didn’t we go through this already?” Hiyori kicked him and Ichigo growled, snatching up her foot. “What’d you do to mess up all that training, huh?” 

“Fuck if I know!” Ichigo yelled as he rose. He used the leverage gained from holding Hiyori’s foot to knock her off-balance and shove her across the floor. Hiyori cartwheeled back upright and rushed at him with a war cry. Ichigo batted her away as he would a pesky fly. 

He was too strong for this kind of training to help him anymore, Ichigo realized. _Damnit all_. 

“Have you considered talking to him?” Lisa asked. This paused everyone. She adjusted her glasses comically. “What? Don’t look at me like that. Sometimes talking helps. Especially after you’ve beaten the crap out of them.” 

Ichigo considered her words for a full minute. 

“Fuck that shit. I’m going home. I have homework to do.” Ichigo waved a backwards farewell over his head. “Thanks for nothing.” 

Shinji yelled something rude after him, along the lines of ‘shit-brats’ and ‘don’t you know how to say ‘thank you’!’ but Ichigo ignored him. The Hollow in him was quiet for once. Ichigo bet it was more a result of exhaustion from their two-day fighting than a case of giving up. When his Hollow woke up, the battle of wills would resume. 

Ichigo just needed to figure out how to deal with him this time around. 

~

The next two days passed too quickly. 

For one, Kurosaki skipped both days. 

For two, Kurosaki _skipped_ both days. 

For three, _Kurosaki skipped both days_. 

By the end of those two days, a rare grin and pain-free expression had made themselves home on your face. 

So when you slid open the homeroom door on the third day to a splash of orange amidst the sea of brunettes, those blissful expressions abandoned ship. You wheeled around on your heel with every intention of leaving before the tornado hit. 

You missed your cue by five beats. 

_Kiiiiiing_ , a croaking voice whinnied up ten scales and back down, and then a torrent of visuals swamped you hard: hands splayed across your hips, nails digging in, teeth scrapping against your neck, arms tugging you back into a too-warm chest, hips grinding— _touch her an’ I’ll shuddup_. 

Silence arrived so abruptly, the visuals ceasing completely, that it left you reeling for something to anchor yourself in, reeling for something to drown out all other thoughts, reeling from the lack of balance. The doorframe lent its support in your time of need. It would be here all week, and all next week too if more support was required. 

Before you could contemplate the silence and what it meant (much less what Kurosaki’s last thought meant!!), a hand gripped your shoulder. You almost jumped through the doorway, but you could barely stand on your own two legs and the hand apparently wasn’t content with just grabbing you. It pushed you forward—and you could see your face greeting the floor in three, two—the hand promptly heaved you along after a tall, lean, orange-headed body. 

“K-Kurosaki! What the fuck?!” you tried clawing onto the doorframe but you’d again missed your mark by five or so beats. Kurosaki had already begun dragging you down the hallway to your death. 

_Oh shit._

_Oh shit. Oh shit. Oh shit._

You had qualms with death. Qualms that you would rather not face today. 

“Kurosaki, stop dragging me!” 

“Then fucking walk!” He snapped, suddenly in your face. 

“Fine, fine!” you held your hands up in a placating manner—and to shove Kurosaki back a step or ten so if you needed to run for your life you’d make it at least as far as those steps. 

Kurosaki still gripped your right shoulder tightly. Too tightly. You could feel bruises forming under that grip. His gaze flickered on you as you ground your teeth together. The grip relaxed. 

Kurosaki stood there uncertainly. 

_This is awkward_ , your brain supplied helpfully. 

He didn’t seem to know what to do with his hand – leave it there? Take it off? Kurosaki’s gaze flickered back and forth over you and his hand connecting the two of you. When you tried to shake his hand off, he only frowned at you and put it back. _What the fuck? Is he going to kill me?_ He wasn’t thinking anything. This disturbed you more than the hand. 

“Kurosaki, please refrain from needlessly bruising me,” you requested dryly. He scowled at you and finally let your shoulder go. 

_Ya can do better than tha’ King~_

_SHUT UP._

Oh thank god, the thinking returned. Your knees almost gave out from under you in relief. Sure, it provided you with an endless source of migraines and adrenaline rushes and all sorts of other unwanted bodily reactions—but at least now you stood a better chance of knowing _when_ exactly he intended to stab or bite you. 

_Maybe he’s a zombie?_ You snorted a laugh down. Kurosaki gave you a funny look and you covered your mouth self-consciously to hide the humor that threatened to come through. 

“S-sorry,” you muttered. “Uh… so what did you want?” _Let’s tread carefully from here_ , you decided. 

Kurosaki’s scowled remained fixed. It reminded you of all the creepy mascaraed-masks used in movies to decorate haunted houses. 

_Okay, this isn’t going so well_. You eyed him warily, your hand still covering your mouth. At least you weren’t the only one thinking this was awkward, what with the string of curses going through his mind. But that was also a normal occurrence, like his scowling, so you couldn’t be sure if it was a reaction to the current situation or a byproduct of his delirium. You opened your mouth to add something else, but Kurosaki beat you to the punchline. 

“Let’s work on the project more after school.” 

_Shit fuck no no no fuck not that godfuckingdamnit why’d you say that?_

_hehehe~_

_SHUT UP SHUT UP SHUT UP this is all your fault! FUCK_

“Uhh…” you mumbled, wide-eyed and hand fortunately covering your gapping mouth. Apparently that wasn’t the right reaction—but come on! Who could blame you when you heard those kinds of thoughts?!—because a panicked expression flitted across Kurosaki’s face before his scowl returned in greater force. 

“Look, if you’re not going to do your share of the work, then we can work separately.” 

_Maybe that would be a good idea_ , you mused at the same time as Albino Kurosaki freaked out. A flash raced through your mind of an unrelenting strangling motion involving the Albino Kurosaki’s pale hands around the Colorful Kurosaki’s neck. 

“Nonono!” you quickly held your hands up again, “That’s not it.” _Please don’t kill the other persona yet. Please don’t kill the other persona yet_. You started calculating how fast you would need to run to get away. But then again, Albino Kurosaki only wanted to play. _He also wants to kill everyone else_ , you noted. _But Colorful Kurosaki wants to kill you_ , brain reminded. 

Shit. His bipolar personality disorder was contagious! 

_No, no no stupid! You always argue with yourself. It’s just you in here!_ Your brain, or you, kindly reassured yourself. _Oh thank god._

Kurosaki was staring at you. Er, he was glaring at you. He was glaring through you, to be exact, and waging a mental death match. 

“Kurosaki?” _No, no, no! Take your chance! Run!_ You cursed yourself. “It’s just that I promised my brother I’d attend his work dinner tonight.” 

“Oh,” his golden gaze zeroed in on you. _Gold? Aren’t his eyes brown?_ He blinked, and they were brown again. 

Your panic reached whole new levels of _I’m fucked._

 _He’s possessed! He’s fucking possessed! I didn’t even know that was a thing! A possible thing! FUUUU—nonono._ You tried to reassure yourself and rubbed your eyes. _You’re just tired and stressed from all this over-mental stimulation. He’s bipolar. That’s all. And his eyes maybe are those hazel-colored ones that change in different lighting. Yeah, yeah, that’s it_. You decided. That’s totally it. Kurosaki has hazel eyes. 

“Alright, well, I finished my list.” Kurosaki ignored your odd eye-rubbing, or maybe just didn’t notice that was unusual behavior for you. “Are you free tomorrow?” 

Shit. You did not want to be free tomorrow. _Just meet in a public place with lots of witnesses so he can kill them first_. That’s a mean thought, you mentally frowned at yourself. Self-preservation thinking sucks. “Yeah,” you sighed. “I’m free tomorrow. Let’s meet at a café or something.” 

“Café?” 

“Yeah, the atmosphere helps me concentrate.” You were a grade-A pro at lying your ass off. Coffee shops gave you major migraines. Caffeine enabled you to hear twice as far and much, whether you wanted to or not. 

But it had lots of traffic and hopefully you would live. 

_Do it King do it do it do it do it_

_Fuck you. I’m not going to a damn coffee shop! I hate coffee!_

_ARGHH!_

Albino Kurosaki snapped and attempted to strangle Colorful Kurosaki again. 

“How about the cat café?” You asked. You liked cats. According to mythology, cats were also supposed to be capable of scaring off demonic possession or sensing if someone was truly possessed. 

Kurosaki stared at you like you’d grown a second head. You imagined you had and this odd physical phenomenon would disrupt his attempts to stab you long enough that you could flee. 

“No!” 

“Fine, then let’s just trade lists now and regroup during class tomorrow.” 

Albino Kurosaki began imaging stabbing several of your classmates. Colorful Kurosaki appeared to cave at the visuals. 

“Okay, okay! Let’s go to the café in the Mitsumiya district.” 

You pulled up your mental map and remembered it was the district next to the one the school was in. _That’s conveniently close._

“Okay. Sounds good,” you agreed. “I’m going to class now.” You promptly wheeled around and zipped for homeroom in a totally not hasty retreat. You didn’t even bother checking if Kurosaki had agreed to a coffee or cat café. 

As you fled, you could feel Kurosaki’s eyes searing little holes in your back. Albino Kurosaki grinned. _Heh. This is gonna be fun~_


	7. (M) Chapter 4: The More the Merrier

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Male-reader perspective.

During lunch, Ichigo informed everyone of his intended whereabouts after school. 

“Ah, that’s right. Tatsuki and I should work on collecting rubber ducks too,” Orihime murmured with a finger on her chin. 

“Rubber ducks?” Uryū asked, “Is your project topic really about rubber ducks?” 

“Yes! It is!” Orihime grinned so brightly; it was like looking into the sun. The sunbeam laser-focused on Uryū and Ichigo could see him melting from its rays. Ichigo assured himself these were rays of goodness and could not cause great harm, despite how he could see Uryū’s mouth threatening suspiciously smile-like upwards motions with terribly uncontrollable twitches. “Our project is about how rubber ducks contribute to a person’s happiness and mental health, and how bathing weekly with a rubber duck helps relieve stress.” 

“That’s actually a good project.” Rukia commented. Ichigo was beginning to regret her decision to return to the Karakura district and enroll back in the high school, in part because of the stupid problems his Hollow was causing and in part because having her back at the Kurosaki clinic and just always around basically zeroed out his private time. He shoved back the Hollow’s suggestions on what could be done with that nonexistent private time by focusing on his surroundings. In particular, on how Rukia glanced at him every few seconds, how she opened her mouth to say something, and on how she looked up to see Orihime giving Ichigo a very consternated look. _Shit._ Ichigo thought. _Don’t give me that look!_ Rukia would figure shit out from it! When he looked back at her, he caught how Rukia had left her mouth hanging open stupidly in her totally-not-subtle staring. The look alone would’ve cracked him up in any other situation—but as it was, he freaked out instead about Orihime’s ridiculously powerful sensing capabilities. Rukia would be pissed that Ichigo wasn’t sharing all of his dirty little secrets with her. 

“Hey!” Rukia shouted suddenly, grabbing Ichigo by his collar and smashing her forehead into his. “What the hell is wrong with you lately, huh?!” 

Her getting angry and loud gave Ichigo an excuse to get pissed right the fuck back without needing to explain his mood. He head-butted her away with an equally loud, “Get the fuck off my back!” 

They began arguing. Again. For the tenth time that month. 

He could see Uryū and Chad sighing in unison and Orihime nibbling quietly on her buttered sweet potato while they argued. But after that he tuned them out. When Rukia screamed louder, he screamed louder. He didn’t even know what they were arguing about anymore, just that his voice clawed out of his throat and the louder they got the easier it was to push the Hollow further and further back— 

“Oh for the love of—,” Uryū tossed his hands up. “Ichigo!” 

“What?!” He snapped, holding Rukia up by the collar. Rukia fell silent for a moment. Uryū assessed the situation quickly and smartly did not ask about Ichigo’s state of being. 

“What’s your project topic?” 

Ichigo blinked the tunnel vision away. He blinked and realized that the Hollow hadn’t actually said anything at all during or before his argument with Rukia. He didn’t contemplate this. Instead, Ichigo release Rukia and settled back onto his bench to resume eating his lunch. Yuzu’s cooking had improved from Five Star Restaurant tastes to Heavenly status; it was food not to be wasted. 

“Dunno, haven’t decided yet. We’re gonna do that today.” 

Rukia sulked in her usual dark-cloud way on to her own bench seat. She grumbled just under her breath about Soul Society duties and barely time for ‘stupid yearlong projects’ and equally ‘stupid non-spiritually aware partners.’ Ichigo heard her, as did Uryū. 

“You could always ask to switch partners,” Uryū offered helpfully. 

“Can’t.” Ichigo answered. Rukia glanced at him, her expression startled. Ichigo wondered if she’d already considered doing that. Well, he had too. He watched Rukia’s expression wither away with dismay as he explained; “Project partners are to be assigned randomly; unless there is a conflict in which your partner moves to another district or country, you are to work your differences out together. They provide therapy.” 

“They provide therapy?!” Rukia shouted. 

“Yeah, like married couple counseling therapy but for project partners.” 

Rukia stared at Ichigo with such horror... Well, Ichigo could sympathize. He focused on his food instead. He listened with only half an ear to the continued conversation. 

“That sounds like fun!” Orihime cheered. “I wonder if Tatsuki and I can do that.” Everyone stared at her. “For fun!” She assured. 

“I don’t think they’d let you do couples counseling for fun,” Uryū said. “It’s a very time-consuming and expensive process for them. It’s a resource that exists for only those that need it.” 

“But what if Rubber Ducky needs it for our project?” Orihime panicked. 

“Well,” Uryū adjusted his glasses uselessly. At one point, Ichigo had wanted to rip his glasses off—the asshole obviously used his glasses as a prop!—but he’d finally gotten over that urge… Mostly. “I suppose that might actually qualify you.” 

Ichigo stopped paying attention. He recalled the impossibility of trading partners and his morning venture to do just that. It was the first thing he asked Misato-sensei when he arrived to class, and he’d made sure to arrive extra early, before anyone else even, just to ask that. His Hollow had been pretty adamant that such a course of action would cause him more harm than good down the road, to which Ichigo had yelled at him, and then they’d proceeded to fight in their inner world until their project partner slid open the classroom door. 

Ichigo could feel it in his bones – well, not just his arrival but a soreness in his bones. The ache of a headache having gotten past the brain and into the spine. The ache of a battle waged for a month straight and sleep full of exertion having dug his bones out hollow. Hollow. Ha. 

As though sensing Ichigo’s shifting mood—and he probably had, that bastard being his instinct and all—the Hollow had offered an olive branch. It was the same one he’d been offering all along. _Is it really so bad to talk to someone King?_

Stupidly, Ichigo had taken it. 

Stupidly. 

Impulsively. 

Irrationally. 

He’d taken the little momentum left in him and charged after his project partner, grabbed his shoulder, and—fuck. That’s when thinking began to crash in. 

But after that, the Hollow went quiet. 

He actually shut up. 

It unnerved Ichigo. 

Even now, eating the karaage that Yuzu had made, the Hollow kept quiet. Usually he used this time to present carefully crafted visuals of how Ichigo’s lunch could be used more creatively with, or rather on, their project partner. And gods if those visuals didn’t go straight to his gut. It was like the Hollow knew exactly what to show or say to get the biggest rise out of Ichigo. 

_Fucking instinct._

_Ya called King~?_

_Shut up._

Ichigo pierced his chicken with his chop sticks. The Hollow laughed. 

_If ya say so~_

As he drifted back off to wherever the hell it was he lurked when he wasn’t screwing with Ichigo’s mind, the Hollow flashed an image of their project partner holding his mouth open in preparation of presumably food. Ichigo grit his teeth and shifted his weight, thinking of other things that should not go in that mouth without the Hollow’s prompting. _Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck._

He couldn’t even think that word peacefully anymore. He had to use a different curse. _Damnit!_

~

You ate lunch with Tatsuki, Keigo, and Mizuiro, mainly because Keigo insisted on getting to know Kurosaki’s yearlong project partner – “This basically makes us buddies too!” – and ensuring that you passed his unusual friendship test – “Do you like Cazh Soul? You must like this show in order to prove yourself worthy of Ichigo!” Fortunately, whenever he made such unnerving comments Tatsuki would punch him in the head. He ducked after the first hit, but still ended up wounded as he proceeded to brag about his “mad superhuman dodging skills!” and earned a third punch. 

This wouldn’t have happened if you’d just left the classroom again today, but after agreeing to meet with Kurosaki after school… he ceased thinking. It unsettled you like it had earlier when he dragged you into the hallway. It unsettled you so much that you’d actually gone fishing in his head and found him focused entirely on the lesson. 

It didn’t make much sense to you, that agreeing to work together after school made him cease his homicidal and perverted mental rampage especially given his own initial (partial? because only one Kurosaki persona had) hesitation. It made even less sense when factoring in how when you’d first arrived to Karakura High School, hanging out with Kurosaki seemed to have the reverse effect: his thoughts had become louder and more violent and more perverted with each passing day! 

Just thinking about this was giving you a headache. 

_Headache, headache, headache. All he gives me are headaches_ , you grouched to yourself. The school food calmed you. Today’s meal involved delicious fried chicken, but only three pieces. Each bite rolled across your tongue, the flavor seeping into your mouth and a light hum reverberating in the back of your throat. You had to be careful when eating in public. One of your friends in France had called it “disturbingly sensual—may I film a pornography?” They’d been very straightforward with their thoughts, which was nice, but… you tried not to get too involved in your food at school anymore. You were a little bit annoyed with your brother for never having said anything about it before he’d returned to Japan, and had called him in a fit when you got home. 

“Ah, well, we were kids. I thought it was normal, and it wasn’t as bad. Mother’s cooking always sucked. All we had was takeout.” He’d explained, and he had a point. Like your older brother, Mother only ever burnt food when she decided to cook. Work kept Dad from home so often that you could hardly recall what he looked like. As far back as you could remember, your older brother had been ordering food on the phone for the two of you to survive off of. 

Keigo shaking you returned you to the present. He shoved his face into your own. 

“Personal space?” you asked. 

“He has no concept of that.” Mizuiro assured. 

“You didn’t answer my question!” Keigo cried. He shook you with such force that you nearly dropped your food. You glowered at him. Actually you growled, which startled him, and he released you with a sheepish grin. “Ah sorry… but answer my question please!” 

“What was it?” 

“What topic did you and Ichigo decide on?” 

“We haven’t, we’re going to today after school.” 

“Oh~! An after-school date!” Keigo grinned. “I want in.” 

You almost spit your food out all over the desk. “It’s not a date! We’re project partners, we’re gonna have to work together often.” 

“Right~” Keigo nodded. There was a stupid glint in his eye and his thoughts were totally in the gutter. An overlaying sing-songing voice accompanied the visuals _I know something you don’t know~_ “So where are you guys working?” 

Glowering at him in a vain attempt to purge his thoughts from your mind, you answered him. “A cat café. Or a coffee café.” 

Everyone stared at you. 

“What?” you snapped. 

“That’s an odd choice.” Tatsuki pointed out with her chopsticks. Some of her food flicked onto your desk. She kindly flicked the pieces off. 

“It’s a date~!” Keigo cheered. 

“It’s not a fucking date!” you almost strangled him, his stupid mental singing worsening your mood, but you held back. Barely. You reminded yourself you were not the homicidal one. Kurosaki was. 

“Why a cat café?” Mizuiro quipped up between bites. The look he gave you irritated you more than Keigo’s mental sing-songing. It felt like being undressed and scrutinized under a telescope for faults and cracks. 

“Because Kurosaki is posse—ahh.” Shit your mouth. “Ahhh.” Tatsuki glanced at you curiously. Mizuiro raised an eyebrow. Keigo smiled charmingly with his hands tucked under his chin. _I know something you don’t know~_ Fuck it. “He’s possessed.” You swallowed the fried chicken whole. 

Silence. 

“What do you mean?” Tatsuki broke the silence first. Mizuiro offered you a saving grace. 

“Ah, Japanese is your second language isn’t it? What do you think ‘possessed’ means?” He questioned. 

“It is? I didn’t know that.” Keigo practically smacked a finger in your face. “You must answer all my questions!” 

The rice mixed with the veggies looked like a goopy mess to you, so you tried separating the foods. You should’ve just left the classroom again today. You should’ve come up with a reasonable way to end the sentence that did not use the word ‘possessed.’ 

Ugh. The rice and vegetable mixture didn’t look any better separated. It also tasted very bland, like unflavored skinless wet potatoes. 

“It’s when someone acts oddly because they…” your voice dropped to a mutter as you stirred your food with unnecessary force. “… _think like a psychopathic serial killer that wants to stab you and stab you and stab you_ ,” and you stabbed your food rather rhythmically. You didn’t think about how stabbing could use not only swords but also certain body parts. 

“I’m sorry, what was that?” Tatsuki asked. “I don’t speak French.” 

Oh, well that’s fortunate because you were pretty sure your mouth got away from you again. The pounding in your skull had transfigured itself into a nice little marching band. They would be here all week, they assured you, just as the sliding classroom doorframe would be here all week. 

“I have a headache.” You decided honesty might save you, “It gets hard to think in another language when I get headaches.” 

“Oh…” Keigo pouted. “Man that sucks!” 

“So when you said ‘cat café or coffee café,’ you meant the coffee one?” Mizuiro asked. He refused to drop this topic. He still offered you a way out, even though to him it wasn’t a way out. 

“No, I meant cat café. Kurosaki didn’t want to go to a coffee shop because he hates coffee. He didn’t want to go to a cat café because they have cats. But he decided we should go to the chocolate shop in the Mitsumiya district because—” Ah, shit. Shitshitshit. _He hadn’t said that aloud!_ Brain yelled at you. _He’d thought that! Quick, recovery mode activated_ : “He sometimes does work there, but agreed to go to the café because café atmospheres help me concentrate. He didn’t specify which, so I hope we go to the cat café because cats are cute.” 

You’re pretty sure you’ve successfully established yourself as an airhead, because that sounded like shit, or as some strange French hipster, just because you went to school in France for over half your life and declared your adoration for cats – but whatever. At least they didn’t suspect that Kurosaki was possessed! _Because he’s not, he’s just got a personality disorder_ , you assured yourself. _Yeah, just like you want to go to the cat café cause cats are cute, not cause they can root out demons_. Brain sniped. _Fuck you brain_. 

“Cats are so~ cute! And the ladies love them!” Mizuiro squealed so suddenly, you almost fell off your chair. It was a complete personality reversal! You had to do a double take, and even glance at his thoughts, before you could believe Mizuiro didn’t suffer a personality disorder similar to Kurosaki. _Man, what cats can do to people_. You weren’t really one to talk, given your own fondness for the fluffy hunters. 

“Hm, a café might actually be a good place to observe more modern methods of relaxation.” Tatsuki thought aloud. “Would you mind if Orihime and I joined you two? We’re working on researching how people cope with stress.” 

_Yespleasefuckingyesyesyes!_ If they came along, then Kurosaki was less likely to kill you! _Or maybe they’ll work with him to kill you faster. Oh shut up and be an optimist for once brain!_

“Of course, the more the merrier!” 

“Wait! I wanna go!” Keigo whined. 

“That’s a good idea. I can teach you how to pick up the ladies while we’re there.” 

“Okay,” you agreed readily, even as you began to suspect that you may’ve dug yourself a hole in the ground. 

Well, you’d find out soon enough.


	8. (F) Chapter 4: The More the Merrier

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Female-reader perspective.

During lunch, Ichigo informed everyone of his intended whereabouts after school. 

“Ah, that’s right. Tatsuki and I should work on collecting rubber ducks too,” Orihime murmured with a finger on her chin. 

“Rubber ducks?” Uryū asked, “Is your project topic really about rubber ducks?” 

“Yes! It is!” Orihime grinned so brightly; it was like looking into the sun. The sunbeam laser-focused on Uryū and Ichigo could see him melting from its rays. Ichigo assured himself these were rays of goodness and could not cause great harm, despite how he could see Uryū’s mouth threatening suspiciously smile-like upwards motions with terribly uncontrollable twitches. “Our project is about how rubber ducks contribute to a person’s happiness and mental health, and how bathing weekly with a rubber duck helps relieve stress.” 

“That’s actually a good project.” Rukia commented. Ichigo was beginning to regret her decision to return to the Karakura district and enroll back in the high school, in part because of the stupid problems his Hollow was causing and in part because having her back at the Kurosaki clinic and just always around basically zeroed out his private time. He shoved back the Hollow’s suggestions on what could be done with that nonexistent private time by focusing on his surroundings. In particular, on how Rukia glanced at him every few seconds, how she opened her mouth to say something, and on how she looked up to see Orihime giving Ichigo a very consternated look. _Shit._ Ichigo thought. _Don’t give me that look!_ Rukia would figure shit out from it! When he looked back at her, he caught how Rukia had left her mouth hanging open stupidly in her totally-not-subtle staring. The look alone would’ve cracked him up in any other situation—but as it was, he freaked out instead about Orihime’s ridiculously powerful sensing capabilities. Rukia would be pissed that Ichigo wasn’t sharing all of his dirty little secrets with her. 

“Hey!” Rukia shouted suddenly, grabbing Ichigo by his collar and smashing her forehead into his. “What the hell is wrong with you lately, huh?!” 

Her getting angry and loud gave Ichigo an excuse to get pissed right the fuck back without needing to explain his mood. He head-butted her away with an equally loud, “Get the fuck off my back!” 

They began arguing. Again. For the tenth time that month. 

He could see Uryū and Chad sighing in unison and Orihime nibbling quietly on her buttered sweet potato while they argued. But after that he tuned them out. When Rukia screamed louder, he screamed louder. He didn’t even know what they were arguing about anymore, just that his voice clawed out of his throat and the louder they got the easier it was to push the Hollow further and further back— 

“Oh for the love of—,” Uryū tossed his hands up. “Ichigo!” 

“What?!” He snapped, holding Rukia up by the collar. Rukia fell silent for a moment. Uryū assessed the situation quickly and smartly did not ask about Ichigo’s state of being. 

“What’s your project topic?” 

Ichigo blinked the tunnel vision away. He blinked and realized that the Hollow hadn’t actually said anything at all during or before his argument with Rukia. He didn’t contemplate this. Instead, Ichigo release Rukia and settled back onto his bench to resume eating his lunch. Yuzu’s cooking had improved from Five Star Restaurant tastes to Heavenly status; it was food not to be wasted. 

“Dunno, haven’t decided yet. We’re gonna do that today.” 

Rukia sulked in her usual dark-cloud way on to her own bench seat. She grumbled just under her breath about Soul Society duties and barely time for ‘stupid yearlong projects’ and equally ‘stupid non-spiritually aware partners.’ Ichigo heard her, as did Uryū. 

“You could always ask to switch partners,” Uryū offered helpfully. 

“Can’t.” Ichigo answered. Rukia glanced at him, her expression startled. Ichigo wondered if she’d already considered doing that. Well, he had too. He watched Rukia’s expression wither away with dismay as he explained; “Project partners are to be assigned randomly; unless there is a conflict in which your partner moves to another district or country, you are to work your differences out together. They provide therapy.” 

“They provide therapy?!” Rukia shouted. 

“Yeah, like married couple counseling therapy but for project partners.” 

Rukia stared at Ichigo with such horror... Well, Ichigo could sympathize. He focused on his food instead. He listened with only half an ear to the continued conversation. 

“That sounds like fun!” Orihime cheered. “I wonder if Tatsuki and I can do that.” Everyone stared at her. “For fun!” She assured. 

“I don’t think they’d let you do couples counseling for fun,” Uryū said. “It’s a very time-consuming and expensive process for them. It’s a resource that exists for only those that need it.” 

“But what if Rubber Ducky needs it for our project?” Orihime panicked. 

“Well,” Uryū adjusted his glasses uselessly. At one point, Ichigo had wanted to rip his glasses off—the asshole obviously used his glasses as a prop!—but he’d finally gotten over that urge… Mostly. “I suppose that might actually qualify you.” 

Ichigo stopped paying attention. He recalled the impossibility of trading partners and his morning venture to do just that. It was the first thing he asked Misato-sensei when he arrived to class, and he’d made sure to arrive extra early, before anyone else even, just to ask that. His Hollow had been pretty adamant that such a course of action would cause him more harm than good down the road, to which Ichigo had yelled at him, and then they’d proceeded to fight in their inner world until their project partner slid open the classroom door. 

Ichigo could feel it in his bones – well, not just her arrival but a soreness in his bones. The ache of a headache having gotten past the brain and into the spine. The ache of a battle waged for a month straight and sleep full of exertion having dug his bones out hollow. Hollow. Ha. 

As though sensing Ichigo’s shifting mood—and he probably had, that bastard being his instinct and all—the Hollow had offered an olive branch. It was the same one he’d been offering all along. _Is it really so bad to talk to someone King?_

Stupidly, Ichigo had taken it. 

Stupidly. 

Impulsively. 

Irrationally. 

He’d taken the little momentum left in him and charged after his project partner, grabbed her shoulder, and—fuck. That’s when thinking began to crash in. 

But after that, the Hollow went quiet. 

He actually shut up. 

It unnerved Ichigo. 

Even now, eating the karaage that Yuzu had made, the Hollow kept quiet. Usually he used this time to present carefully crafted visuals of how Ichigo’s lunch could be used more creatively with, or rather on, their project partner. And gods if those visuals didn’t go straight to his gut. It was like the Hollow knew exactly what to show or say to get the biggest rise out of Ichigo. 

_Fucking instinct._

_Ya called King~?_

_Shut up._

Ichigo pierced his chicken with his chop sticks. The Hollow laughed. 

_If ya say so~_

As he drifted back off to wherever the hell it was he lurked when he wasn’t screwing with Ichigo’s mind, the Hollow flashed an image of their project partner holding her mouth open in preparation of presumably food. Ichigo grit his teeth and shifted his weight, thinking of other things that should not go in that mouth without the Hollow’s prompting. _Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck._

He couldn’t even think that word peacefully anymore. He had to use a different curse. _Damnit!_

~

You ate lunch with Tatsuki, Keigo, and Mizuiro, mainly because Keigo insisted on getting to know Kurosaki’s yearlong project partner – “This basically makes us buddies too!” – and ensuring that you passed his unusual friendship test – “Do you like Cazh Soul? You must like this show in order to prove yourself worthy of Ichigo!” Fortunately, whenever he made such unnerving comments Tatsuki would punch him in the head. He ducked after the first hit, but still ended up wounded as he proceeded to brag about his “mad superhuman dodging skills!” and earned a third punch. 

This wouldn’t have happened if you’d just left the classroom again today, but after agreeing to meet with Kurosaki after school… he ceased thinking. It unsettled you like it had earlier when he dragged you into the hallway. It unsettled you so much that you’d actually gone fishing in his head and found him focused entirely on the lesson. 

It didn’t make much sense to you, that agreeing to work together after school made him cease his homicidal and perverted mental rampage especially given his own initial (partial? because only one Kurosaki persona had) hesitation. It made even less sense when factoring in how when you’d first arrived to Karakura High School, hanging out with Kurosaki seemed to have the reverse effect: his thoughts had become louder and more violent and more perverted with each passing day! 

Just thinking about this was giving you a headache. 

_Headache, headache, headache. All he gives me are headaches_ , you grouched to yourself. The school food calmed you. Today’s meal involved delicious fried chicken, but only three pieces. Each bite rolled across your tongue, the flavor seeping into your mouth and a light hum reverberating in the back of your throat. You had to be careful when eating in public. One of your friends in France had called it “disturbingly sensual—may I film a pornography?” They’d been very straightforward with their thoughts, which was nice, but… you tried not to get too involved in your food at school anymore. You were a little bit annoyed with your brother for never having said anything about it before he’d returned to Japan, and had called him in a fit when you got home. 

“Ah, well, we were kids. I thought it was normal, and it wasn’t as bad. Mother’s cooking always sucked. All we had was takeout.” He’d explained, and he had a point. Like your older brother, Mother only ever burnt food when she decided to cook. Work kept Dad from home so often that you could hardly recall what he looked like. As far back as you could remember, your older brother had been ordering food on the phone for the two of you to survive off of. 

Keigo shaking you returned you to the present. He shoved his face into your own. 

“Personal space?” you asked. 

“He has no concept of that.” Mizuiro assured. 

“You didn’t answer my question!” Keigo cried. He shook you with such force that you nearly dropped your food. You glowered at him. Actually you growled, which startled him, and he released you with a sheepish grin. “Ah sorry… but answer my question please!” 

“What was it?” 

“What topic did you and Ichigo decide on?” 

“We haven’t, we’re going to today after school.” 

“Oh~! An after-school date!” Keigo grinned. “I want in.” 

You almost spit your food out all over the desk. “It’s not a date! We’re project partners, we’re gonna have to work together often.” 

“Right~” Keigo nodded. There was a stupid glint in his eye and his thoughts were totally in the gutter. An overlaying sing-songing voice accompanied the visuals _I know something you don’t know~_ “So where are you guys working?” 

Glowering at him in a vain attempt to purge his thoughts from your mind, you answered him. “A cat café. Or a coffee café.” 

Everyone stared at you. 

“What?” you snapped. 

“That’s an odd choice.” Tatsuki pointed out with her chopsticks. Some of her food flicked onto your desk. She kindly flicked the pieces off. 

“It’s a date~!” Keigo cheered. 

“It’s not a fucking date!” you almost strangled him, his stupid mental singing worsening your mood, but you held back. Barely. You reminded yourself you were not the homicidal one. Kurosaki was. 

“Why a cat café?” Mizuiro quipped up between bites. The look he gave you irritated you more than Keigo’s mental sing-songing. It felt like being undressed and scrutinized under a telescope for faults and cracks. 

“Because Kurosaki is posse—ahh.” Shit your mouth. “Ahhh.” Tatsuki glanced at you curiously. Mizuiro raised an eyebrow. Keigo smiled charmingly with his hands tucked under his chin. _I know something you don’t know~_ Fuck it. “He’s possessed.” You swallowed the fried chicken whole. 

Silence. 

“What do you mean?” Tatsuki broke the silence first. Mizuiro offered you a saving grace. 

“Ah, Japanese is your second language isn’t it? What do you think ‘possessed’ means?” He questioned. 

“It is? I didn’t know that.” Keigo practically smacked a finger in your face. “You must answer all my questions!” 

The rice mixed with the veggies looked like a goopy mess to you, so you tried separating the foods. You should’ve just left the classroom again today. You should’ve come up with a reasonable way to end the sentence that did not use the word ‘possessed.’ 

Ugh. The rice and vegetable mixture didn’t look any better separated. It also tasted very bland, like unflavored skinless wet potatoes. 

“It’s when someone acts oddly because they…” your voice dropped to a mutter as you stirred your food with unnecessary force. “… _think like a psychopathic serial killer that wants to stab you and stab you and stab you_ ,” and you stabbed your food rather rhythmically. You didn’t think about how stabbing could use not only swords but also certain body parts. 

“I’m sorry, what was that?” Tatsuki asked. “I don’t speak French.” 

Oh, well that’s fortunate because you were pretty sure your mouth got away from you again. The pounding in your skull had transfigured itself into a nice little marching band. They would be here all week, they assured you, just as the sliding classroom doorframe would be here all week. 

“I have a headache.” You decided honesty might save you, “It gets hard to think in another language when I get headaches.” 

“Oh…” Keigo pouted. “Man that sucks!” 

“So when you said ‘cat café or coffee café,’ you meant the coffee one?” Mizuiro asked. He refused to drop this topic. He still offered you a way out, even though to him it wasn’t a way out. 

“No, I meant cat café. Kurosaki didn’t want to go to a coffee shop because he hates coffee. He didn’t want to go to a cat café because they have cats. But he decided we should go to the chocolate shop in the Mitsumiya district because—” Ah, shit. Shitshitshit. _He hadn’t said that aloud!_ Brain yelled at you. _He’d thought that! Quick, recovery mode activated_ : “He sometimes does work there, but agreed to go to the café because café atmospheres help me concentrate. He didn’t specify which, so I hope we go to the cat café because cats are cute.” 

You’re pretty sure you’ve successfully established yourself as an airhead, because that sounded like shit, or as some strange French hipster, just because you went to school in France for over half your life and declared your adoration for cats – but whatever. At least they didn’t suspect that Kurosaki was possessed! _Because he’s not, he’s just got a personality disorder_ , you assured yourself. _Yeah, just like you want to go to the cat café cause cats are cute, not cause they can root out demons_. Brain sniped. _Fuck you brain_. 

“Cats are so~ cute! And the ladies love them!” Mizuiro squealed so suddenly, you almost fell off your chair. It was a complete personality reversal! You had to do a double take, and even glance at his thoughts, before you could believe Mizuiro didn’t suffer a personality disorder similar to Kurosaki. _Man, what cats can do to people_. You weren’t really one to talk, given your own fondness for the fluffy hunters. 

“Hm, a café might actually be a good place to observe more modern methods of relaxation.” Tatsuki thought aloud. “Would you mind if Orihime and I joined you two? We’re working on researching how people cope with stress.” 

_Yespleasefuckingyesyesyes!_ If they came along, then Kurosaki was less likely to kill you! _Or maybe they’ll work with him to kill you faster. Oh shut up and be an optimist for once brain!_

“Of course, the more the merrier!” 

“Wait! I wanna go!” Keigo whined. 

“That’s a good idea. I can teach you how to pick up the ladies while we’re there.” 

“Okay,” you agreed readily, even as you began to suspect that you may’ve dug yourself a hole in the ground. 

Well, you’d find out soon enough.


	9. (M) Chapter 5: Invitations will be Inspected

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> male-reader perspective.  
>   
> posting a day earlier than normal cause tomorrow will be super hectic. Enjoy!

Kurosaki promptly uninvited everyone that had self-invited themselves. This included: Keigo, Mizuiro, Uryū, Chad, Rukia, Tatsuki, Orihime, Rukia’s project partner, Michiru (Uryū’s project partner, the poor girl), Chizuru, and Tetsuo (Chad’s project partner). 

How all these people had self-invited themselves, you honestly weren’t quite sure. But if you had to hazard a guess, you would blame Keigo’s blabber-mouthed nature and then everyone else’s need to follow X person. So, Chizuru’s desire to follow Orihime due to her crush. Tatsuki’s desire to follow Orihime in order to protect her from Chizuru. Rukia’s desire to follow Kurosaki due to her concern. Michiru’s desire to be in a group of smiling people to lessen the blow of Uryū’s blank face. Uryū’s desire to follow Michiru and accomplish some work. Chad’s desire to follow Kurosaki out of fiercely loyal friendship. Tetsuo’s desire to get Kurosaki and you to join the karate club. 

You were noticing a theme here. It was Kurosaki’s fault in some way, shape, or form. Even you allowing everyone to invite themselves: that could be blamed on Kurosaki. 

“Aw~! But I want to test Mr. Ducky on the cats!” Orihime whined. _I have to stay with Ichigo. He’s not feeling well. Something’s wrong. I can feel it._

“What? What cats?!” Kurosaki shouted. _What the hell does she mean ‘cats’?!_

“The cats that will help me get the ladies!” Keigo chimed. _I need to get laid! I bet Kurosaki’s partner has already done it. Why am I the only one without any experience? Waaaah!_

“Exactly. If you befriend a cat, then a lady is sure to follow.” _Sex is so much fun. Cats are so cute~!_

“That makes absolutely no sense. What do cats have to do with ladies?” _If we leave now we should arrive at the cat café in approximately thirty minutes. But then Michiru and I will miss craft club’s exercise today._

“What the hell do cats have to do with anything?!” Kurosaki’s voice could sure be loud. 

_King. King. King._

_SHUT UP HOLLOW._

“Will you stop screaming! There’s no need to scream!!” _DAMNIT ICHIGO YOU’RE PISSING ME OFF._

“I’ll stop screaming WHENEVER THE HELL I WANT.” 

_If ya stab them—_

_I SAID SHUT UP._

“Please… everyone, please… let’s just take a moment to smile.” _Ohpleaseohpleaseohplease everyone calm down. Ah! I can feel myself not breathing. Maybe Uryū and I should go to craft club now. Ah! But he’s frowning! Ah!_

“Why the hell would you scream for no good reason!!” 

_—humans better off dead King_

“You can scream all you want at karate club! We scream all the time. Like this: hy-YA!” 

_SHUT UP._

_Ya try to help an’ ya get yelled at_

_SHUT UP. SHUT UP. SHUT UP._

“CHIZURU. What the hell do you think you’re doing?!” _Stop touching Orihime like that!_

“Orihime likes this, don’t you Orihime?” 

“I like hugs. Hugs are nice. Mr. Ducky would like a hug too.” _I wonder if hugging Ichigo would help him feel better?_

“Get away from her!” 

“Ow! Tatsuki, don’t be so mean—” 

_Ichigo isn’t listening to me. Gods, why does he act like I don’t exist? Why won’t he join karate club? Ah, that’s his project partner! If I get him to join, then he’ll convince Kurosaki to as well. I should show him ka—_

_Nobody fucking touches him—KING. KILL._

_WHAT THE HELL NO. NO. SHUT UP. STOP THAT._

Tetsuo grabbed your wrist. Images filled your head of stabbing him through with a sword— 

Everyone talked over each other. 

Everyone thought over each other. 

Blood and sex and cats and ducks and buttons flashed through your brain. 

“EVERYONE. SHUT. THE FUCK. UP!” You screamed and Tetsuo let you go so quickly, he flailed and fell backwards. 

When you stay at a concert long enough, you forget how strongly the music blasts at your eardrums. Your ears ring afterwards. They did so now; the quiet so abrupt—you could’ve sworn someone was ringing one of those triangles for food. In the same token, when you test multiple colognes in a row, you forget how spicy and cool they are until you smell coffee grinds, and then the scent overwhelms you. As though you’d just smelt such bitterness, you breathed in. The air chilled your lungs. 

That was probably because you were in the courtyard with the trees, and it was a bit windy. 

“Kurosaki is right. There are too many people now to get any work done.” You proceeded to bow apologetically because oh there were birds chirping and you could hear them. They sang the song of wind chimes. Maybe that was what you’d interpreted as a ringing triangle earlier? “Perhaps in the future, we can do small group work.” 

_Never._

_Nope._

_This is too frustrating._

_Everyone’s so noisy._

_Oh please don’t leave me without smiles!_

You pushed all the voices out because compared to Kurosaki’s psychotic barrages, it was easy, and right now Kurosaki’s brain had gone silent. You didn’t even worry about how he might kill you once everyone left. 

The concrete felt surprisingly sturdy underneath your feet, and when you shifted your weight towards the grassy patch beside it, the earth felt soft and squishy. The sun warmed your head. 

“Yeah, everyone fuck off.” Kurosaki ordered. 

“ICHIGO!” Several people chorused. But after a few moments and a few more words, a few goodbyes and ‘Oh! Craft club!’ and ‘Oh! Karate club!’ everyone left. 

You smiled at the brick building. If you squinted at this angle, the school resembled a squat guard dog. 

“Cat café?” Kurosaki’s voice brought you back to your unfortunate fate. 

The grin hung desperately on by a single point, but ultimately fell off your face. 

He wasn’t thinking. 

At all. 

He must’ve already processed the ways he would murder you. 

_Shit. No wait. He must’ve changed his mind! That’s it! Happy Kurosaki must be in control. Bipolar people have a happy personality, right? Yeah, yeah, just keep him happy,_ you thought. 

“Uhh…” Unfortunately, your mouth and face were slow on the uptake. Kurosaki began to frown in such a way that his forehead accompanied the motion. “I just thought it would be nice to pet cats.” That sounded so stupid. “Do you not like cats?” You asked. 

_King._

_SHU—_

_Let’s pet cats._

Kurosaki’s expression was priceless. You imagined this as one of those commercialized ‘Kodiak’ moments. His frown gave way for a gapping mouth, and you fought hard against the urge to tease him for it, and doubly hard against the ridiculous grin threatening to overtake you. Kurosaki stared. He wondered if maybe this was a trick. 

_Pet cats King. Jus’ do it. Pet ‘em._

_… kill them?_ Colorful Kurosaki thought so quietly, you almost didn’t catch it. Albino Kurosaki did. 

_Does it fucking look like he wants to kill cats?!_ Albino snapped. 

“No.” 

They stared at you. Oh! 

_Oh!_

Shit! 

_They don’t know I can hear them. Fuck!_

“I take that as a ‘no you don’t like cats?’” Mouth thought on its feet and gods in that moment you would feed it plates of golden apples if you could for that save. 

“It’s not that…” Kurosaki said haltingly. “It’s just… I’m not sure how much work we can get done petting cats.” 

“Okay. I see your point.” You nodded agreeably, but you had one half of the Kurosakis on your side for cats and you needed to be sure this wasn’t possession. You went for the kill. “Let’s just pet cats for a little bit, and then go to the café, or wherever else you prefer, and get work done. Sound good?” 

“Urahara’s shop.” 

That was the candy or something shop. You’d actually never been there or even heard of it, outside of Kurosaki’s head. But sure. Even though it might be a trap, by that point you’d at least know for certain what you were up against. 

“Sure!” you agreed and the two of you began walking towards the Mitsumiya district. You texted your brother on the way of where’d you be, just in case. 

~

The cats loved Kurosaki. 

Kurosaki did not dislike the cats. 

He also did not love them. 

You were convinced that all the cats were biased because they were colorful and orange, or entirely white. The one black cat hid on the top shelf of a wall-bookcase. You proceeded to spend the next fifteen minutes attempting to coerce it down. In this case, coercing meant: scaling the questionably stable shelves to grab the cat. You weren’t actually the type to call a cat to you. If it didn’t come on it’s on, then you would go get it. 

The cats that were not surrounding Kurosaki followed you like the plague because, well, cats loved you too. They basically worshiped you as far as the average bystander was concerned. Several of them scaled the shelves alongside you, adding unneeded pressure to their already fragile hold. The other customers in the café, mostly girls, giggled at the sight of you and Kurosaki. They’d initially tried to speak to Kurosaki—but his scowl scared them away. They settled for taking a million photographs with their phones. 

“What are you doing?” Kurosaki asked from his chair on the other side of the room buried under a pile of cats. It was difficult to spot his orange hair under all the orange cats. It was particularly difficult because Kurosaki had seated himself on an orange chair next to the one wall painted orange. All the other walls were white with black-silhouetted images of cats drinking coffee and blocks of English text saying ‘CAFÉ COFFEE CATS’. You were pretty sure they hung the words up because they were English and all began with C. 

“Just wait there. I’ll be back in a moment.” This shelf felt like a sheet of paper. It made a creaking noise that resembled falling trees. Or at least you imagined that this was the sound a tree made when it fell. 

A chest pressed against your back, the contact heating you all over, and a lean arm wrapped around your waist. Another hand reached out to snag the cat you’d been reaching for and both of the limbs pulled you away from the shelving. The shelf you’d just stepped on crumbled to the floor. 

Kurosaki set you down. He handed you the cat and scowled down at you. The scowling only made you realize how fast your heart was pounding against your ribcage, and the ball of fluff in your arms only made you realize how much you missed that heat searing your back— _I can’t think like this._ Breathing became difficult. _He’s homicidal!_ Breathbreathbreath! In. In. In. Hold. Out. 

“Don’t do dangerous things like that.” Kurosaki ordered without thinking about anything, not about the way you were staring at him or breathing oddly, not about the way you looked flustered with disheveled hair, not about how your shirt’s top two buttons had become misaligned and the skin underneath looked appetiz—ah. He was totally thinking all of these things. He tried hard not to. You tried hard not to hear him. In doing so, you realized that the rapid-fire SNAPSNAPSNAPSNAP you’d begun to tune out was all the other customers taking pictures of the two of you. You felt your face burning at their thoughts. 

“Right.” The cat in your arms twisted. You looked down. “Right.” You repeated, more as a self-reminder, and shoved the cat in Kurosaki’s face. Kurosaki scowled at it. 

“Really? You want me to hold it?” 

“Yes please.” 

“Fuck.” Kurosaki tried not to stare at you. Tried not to look in your eyes. Tried not to see your flustered expression. He picked up the cat dutifully and held it, scowling. The cat appeared to scowl too. But other than this, and squirming, the cat did little else. 

“Well.” You murmured, thinking. “I guess you’re not possessed.” _Oh shit_. You begged the earth to just swallow you up now. 

Kurosaki frowned at you. 

_Heh_. Albino Kurosaki purred. _Wonder what else’s in tha’ head_. 

_Shut up Hollow_. Colorful Kurosaki muttered with less bite than usual. _Why the fuck does he think I’m possessed?_

“That’s good news!” You cheered, smiling so much it hurt. “My last project partner was possessed.” Lielielielie. Such a lame lie. “I’m glad I don’t have to worry about that with you. Let’s get some work done, yeah?” You marched to the other side of the room and grabbed your bag. 

Turning around, you found Kurosaki still standing there holding the black cat, a peculiar expression resting firmly on his face. 

“Right.” Kurosaki finally muttered. He set the cat down. “Whatever, let’s go.” 

_Shitshitshitshit._

Next stop: death’s door. 

Or in Albino Kurosaki’s case, next stop: the sauna. 

_Wait. Sauna???_


	10. (F) Chapter 5: Invitations will be Inspected

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> female-reader perspective.  
>   
> posting a day earlier than normal cause tomorrow will be super hectic. Enjoy!

Kurosaki promptly uninvited everyone that had self-invited themselves. This included: Keigo, Mizuiro, Uryū, Chad, Rukia, Tatsuki, Orihime, Rukia’s project partner, Michiru (Uryū’s project partner, the poor girl), Chizuru, and Tetsuo (Chad’s project partner). 

How all these people had self-invited themselves, you honestly weren’t quite sure… but if you had to hazard a guess, you would blame Keigo’s blabber-mouthed nature and then everyone else’s need to follow X person. So, Chizuru’s desire to follow Orihime due to her crush. Tatsuki’s desire to follow Orihime in order to protect her from Chizuru. Rukia’s desire to follow Kurosaki due to her concern. Michiru’s desire to be in a group of smiling people to lessen the blow of Uryū’s blank face. Uryū’s desire to follow Michiru and accomplish some work. Chad’s desire to follow Kurosaki out of fiercely loyal friendship. Tetsuo’s desire to get Kurosaki to join the karate club and bring you along so he could hook up with you. 

You were noticing a theme here. It was Kurosaki’s fault in some way, shape, or form. Even you allowing everyone to invite themselves: that could be blamed on Kurosaki. 

“Aw~! But I want to test Mr. Ducky on the cats!” Orihime whined. _I have to stay with Ichigo. He’s not feeling well. Something’s wrong. I can feel it—Why is his project partner standing so close to him… I should move here so I’m between them… No, don’t be ridiculous Orihime. She’s not an alien invader here to steal Ichigo!_

“What? What cats?!” Kurosaki shouted. _What the hell does she mean ‘cats’?!_

“The cats that will help me get the ladies!” Keigo chimed. _I need to get laid! I wonder if Kurosaki’s partner will share her womanly wisdom with me? I bet it’s better than even Michiru’s advice!_

“Exactly. If you befriend a cat, then a lady is sure to follow.” _Sex is so much fun. Cats are so cute~!_

“That makes absolutely no sense. What do cats have to do with ladies?” _If we leave now we should arrive at the cat café in approximately thirty minutes. But then Michiru and I will miss craft club’s exercise today._

“What the hell do cats have to do with anything?!” Kurosaki’s voice could sure be loud. 

_King. King. King._

_SHUT UP HOLLOW._

“Will you stop screaming! There’s no need to scream!!” _DAMNIT ICHIGO YOU’RE PISSING ME OFF._

“I’ll stop screaming WHENEVER THE HELL I WANT.” 

_If ya stab them—_

_I SAID SHUT UP._

“Please… everyone, please… let’s just take a moment to smile.” _Ohpleaseohpleaseohplease everyone calm down. Ah! I can feel myself not breathing. Maybe Uryū and I should go to craft club now. Ah! But he’s frowning! Ah!_

“Why the hell would you scream for no good reason!!” 

_—humans better off dead King_

“You can scream all you want at karate club! We scream all the time. Like this: hy-YA!” 

_SHUT UP._

_Ya try to help an’ ya get yelled at_

_SHUT UP. SHUT UP. SHUT UP._

“CHIZURU. What the hell do you think you’re doing?!” _Stop touching Orihime like that!_

“Orihime likes this, don’t you Orihime?” 

“I like hugs. Hugs are nice. Mr. Ducky would like a hug too.” _I wonder if hugging Ichigo would help him feel better?_

“Get away from her!” 

“Ow! Tatsuki, don’t be so mean—” 

_Ichigo isn’t listening to me. Gods, why does he act like I don’t exist? Why won’t he join karate club? And his project partner is so cute. Why won’t Kurosaki introduce me to her? Maybe if I impress her, she’ll notice me. I should just talk to her—_

_Nobody fucking touches her—KING. KILL._

_WHAT THE HELL NO. NO. SHUT UP. STOP THAT._

Tetsuo grabbed your wrist. Images filled your head of stabbing him through with a sword— 

Everyone talked over each other. 

Everyone thought over each other. 

Blood and sex and cats and ducks and buttons flashed through your brain. 

“EVERYONE. SHUT. UP!” You screamed and Tetsuo let you go so quickly, he flailed and fell backwards. 

When you stay at a concert long enough, you forget how strongly the music blasts at your eardrums. Your ears ring afterwards. They did so now; the quiet so abrupt—you could’ve sworn someone was ringing one of those triangles for food. In the same token, when you test multiple perfumes in a row, you forget how sickly sweet they are until you smell coffee grinds, and then the scent overwhelms you. As though you’d just smelt such bitterness, you breathed in. The air tasted as sweet as cherry blossoms. 

That was probably because you were in the courtyard with the blooming trees. 

“Kurosaki is right. There are too many people now to get any work done.” You proceeded to bow apologetically because oh there were birds chirping and you could hear them. They sang the song of wind chimes. Maybe that was what you’d interpreted as a ringing triangle earlier? “Perhaps in the future, we can do small group work.” 

_Never._

_Nope._

_This is too frustrating._

_Everyone’s so noisy._

_Oh please don’t leave me without smiles!_

You pushed all the voices out because compared to Kurosaki’s psychotic barrages, it was easy, and right now Kurosaki’s brain had gone silent. You didn’t even worry about how he might kill you once everyone left. 

The concrete felt surprisingly sturdy underneath your feet, and when you shifted your weight towards the grassy patch beside it, the earth felt soft and squishy. The sun warmed your head. 

“Yeah, everyone fuck off.” Kurosaki ordered. 

“ICHIGO!” Several people chorused. But after a few moments and a few more words, a few goodbyes and ‘Oh! Craft club!’ and ‘Oh! Karate club!’ everyone left. 

You smiled at the brick building. If you squinted at this angle, the school resembled a squat guard dog. 

“Cat café?” Kurosaki’s voice brought you back to your unfortunate fate. 

The grin hung desperately on by a single point, but ultimately fell off your face. 

He wasn’t thinking. 

At all. 

He must’ve already processed the ways he would murder you. 

_Shit. No wait. He must’ve changed his mind! That’s it! Happy Kurosaki must be in control. Bipolar people have a happy personality, right? Yeah, yeah, just keep him happy, you thought._

“Uhh…” Unfortunately, your mouth and face were slow on the uptake. Kurosaki began to frown in such a way that his forehead accompanied the motion. “I just thought it would be nice to pet cats.” That sounded so stupid. “Do you not like cats?” You asked. 

_King._

_SHU—_

_Let’s pet cats._

Kurosaki’s expression was priceless. You imagined this as one of those commercialized ‘Kodiak’ moments. His frown gave way for a gapping mouth, and in a fit of childish delight, you reached a hand out to shut it for him. 

“Don’t want to catch flies~” you sang. 

Kurosaki stared at you. He wondered if maybe this was a trick. 

_Pet cats King. Jus’ do it. Pet ‘em._

_… kill them?_ Colorful Kurosaki thought so quietly, you almost didn’t catch it. Albino Kurosaki did. 

_Does it fucking look like she wants to kill cats?!_ Albino snapped. 

“No.” 

They stared at you. Oh! 

_Oh!_

Shit! 

_They don’t know I can hear them. Fuck!_

“I take that as a ‘no you don’t like cats?’” Mouth thought on its feet and gods in that moment you would feed it plates of golden apples if you could for that save. 

“It’s not that…” Kurosaki said haltingly. “It’s just… I’m not sure how much work we can get done petting cats.” 

“Okay. I see your point.” You nodded agreeably, but you had one half of the Kurosakis on your side for cats and you needed to be sure this wasn’t possession. You went for the kill. “Let’s just pet cats for a little bit, and then go to the café, or wherever else you prefer, and get work done. Sound good?” 

“Urahara’s shop.” 

That was the candy or something shop. You’d actually never been there or even heard of it, outside of Kurosaki’s head. But sure. Even though it might be a trap, by that point you’d at least know for certain what you were up against. 

“Sure!” you agreed and the two of you began walking towards the Mitsumiya district. You texted your brother on the way of where’d you be, just in case. 

~

The cats loved Kurosaki. 

Kurosaki did not dislike the cats. 

He also did not love them. 

You were convinced that all the cats were biased because they were colorful and orange, or entirely white. The one black cat hid on the top shelf of a wall-bookcase. You proceeded to spend the next fifteen minutes attempting to coerce it down. In this case, coercing meant: scaling the questionably stable shelves to grab the cat. You weren’t actually the type to call a cat to you. If it didn’t come on it’s on, then you would go get it. 

The cats that were not surrounding Kurosaki followed you like the plague because, well, cats loved you too. They basically worshiped you as far as the average bystander was concerned. Several of them scaled the shelves alongside you, adding unneeded pressure to their already fragile hold. The other customers in the café, mostly girls, giggled at the sight of Kurosaki and glowered darkly when you followed in shortly after. They’d initially tried to speak to Kurosaki—but his scowl scared them away. They settled for taking a million photographs with their phones and glaring daggers at you. 

“What are you doing?” Kurosaki asked from his chair on the other side of the room buried under a pile of cats. It was difficult to spot his orange hair under all the orange cats. It was particularly difficult because Kurosaki had seated himself on an orange chair next to the one wall painted orange. All the other walls were white with black-silhouetted images of cats drinking coffee and blocks of English text saying ‘CAFÉ COFFEE CATS’. You were pretty sure they hung the words up because they were English and all began with C. 

“Just wait there. I’ll be back in a moment.” This shelf felt like a sheet of paper. It made a creaking noise that resembled falling trees. Or at least you imagined that this was the sound a tree made when it fell. 

A chest pressed against your back, the contact heating you all over, and a lean arm wrapped around your waist, just grazing your breasts. Another hand reached out to snag the cat you’d been reaching for and both of the limbs pulled you away from the shelving. The shelf you’d just stepped on crumbled to the floor. 

Kurosaki set you down. He handed you the cat and scowled down at you. The scowling only made you realize how fast your heart was pounding against your ribcage, and the ball of fluff in your arms only made you realize how much you missed that heat searing your back— _I can’t think like this_. Breathing became difficult. _He’s homicidal!_ Ah, breathbreathbreath! In. In. In. Hold. Out. 

“Don’t do dangerous things like that.” Kurosaki ordered without thinking about anything, not about the way you were staring at him or breathing oddly, definitely not about the way your breasts had felt brushing his arm, not about the way you looked flustered with disheveled hair, not about how your blouse’s top two buttons had become misaligned and the skin underneath looked appetiz—ah. He was totally thinking all of these things. He tried hard not to. You tried hard not to hear him. In doing so, you realized that the mild headache you’d begun to tune out was all the other female customers thinking murderous thoughts of you. You felt sweat gathering in the nape of your neck at the tense atmosphere. 

“Right.” The cat in your arms twisted. You looked down. “Right.” You repeated, more as a self-reminder, and shoved the cat in Kurosaki’s face. Kurosaki scowled at it. 

“Really? You want me to hold it?” 

“Yes please.” 

“Fuck.” Kurosaki tried not to stare at you. Tried not to look in your eyes. Tried not to see your flustered expression. He picked up the cat dutifully and held it, scowling. The cat appeared to scowl too. But other than this, and squirming, the cat did little else. 

“Well.” You murmured, thinking. “I guess you’re not possessed.” _Oh shit_. You begged the earth to just swallow you up now. 

Kurosaki frowned at you. 

_Heh_. Albino Kurosaki purred. _Wonder what else’s in tha’ head._

_Shut up Hollow_. Colorful Kurosaki muttered with less bite than usual. _Why the fuck does she think I’m possessed?_

“That’s good news!” You cheered, smiling so much it hurt. “My last project partner was possessed.” Lielielielie. Such a lame lie. “I’m glad I don’t have to worry about that with you. Let’s get some work done, yeah?” You marched to the other side of the room and grabbed your bag. 

Turning around, you found Kurosaki still standing there holding the black cat, a peculiar expression resting firmly on his face. 

“Right.” Kurosaki finally muttered. He set the cat down. “Whatever, let’s go.” 

_Shitshitshitshit._

Next stop: death’s door. 

Or in Albino Kurosaki’s case, next stop: the sauna. 

_Wait. Sauna???_


	11. (M) Chapter 6: Be Aware of All Possible Exits

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> male-reader perspective

Urahara’s Shop. The exterior appeared the definition of non-descript, with its overtly innocuous sign hanging above, a simple dark van with tinted windows parked on the side, bland walls, and general lack of decor. The whole building screamed subtle underground market for porno starved teens. 

Kurosaki sputtered beside you, his face reddening. 

“It does not!” 

“It totally does! Just look at that sign Kurosaki!” you pointed wildly at it. “I bet you fifty yen the shop owner is a pervert.” 

By the expression on Kurosaki’s face, you’d already won the bet. You held out your palm face up. Kurosaki scowled. 

“No. I’m not betting that. Come on. We have work we need to do.” _Fucking pain in the ass pervy old man better not make this worse damnit stupid fucking Hollow stupid fucking instincts stupid fucking—_

“Can we refrain from stupid fucking?” 

Kurosaki tripped over the doorframe. 

You buried your face in your hands. At this rate, you were going to either a) get killed b) reveal your stupid mind reading or c) end up in a mental ward. Possibly all three and maybe a grave too. You took comfort in blaming it on Kurosaki’s overpowering thoughts and your inability to block them out. If you could just block them, then you wouldn’t react to them! If he stopped thinking so loudly and forcefully and invasively, then you wouldn’t have to try so hard to block them out! 

_Ugh. This is circular logic._ You stepped over and around Kurosaki’s prone body to get into the shop. 

It was actually a candy and exotic foods shop. Piles and piles of candy, snacks, and other delicious foreign goodies that you could not recognize, even the ones purportedly from France, gleamed wickedly under the bright florescent lighting. They oozed chocolaty goodness in such a way as to turn even the most virtuous person into a glutton. 

“I guess it’s not a porno market…” You lifted up the nearest glowing candy from France and read the fine print. “’Caution: do not take with medicine. Contains liquor. Aphrodisiac.’ I stand corrected. Kurosaki!” You wheeled on him. Kurosaki was still on the floor with his face in the wood. “You owe me fifty yen. Pay up.” 

Kurosaki groaned. _Stupid fucking. He said no stupid fucking. He said no stupid fucking._

_Yea well don’t stupid fuck him then!_ Albino Kurosaki appeared pretty pissed. _Just fuck him stupid!_

_DAMNIT HOLLOW. SHU—_

_Shuddup, shuddup. Is tha’ all ya got? Get th’ fuck up before that pervert touches—_

An arm wrapped around your shoulders. “Ah~ welcome to my shop!” _Is this Ichigo’s friend? How interesting~_

Stabbing and unfamiliar hands undressing you and sieges of monsters fit only for boogieman stories and— _he’s got a cute butt._

You smacked him without thinking and he hit the ground hard. “Oh.” You leaned over him. “Sorry…” Even lying crumpled on the ground, his hat hid the top half of his face. The combination of shadows over his eyes and his cheerfully raunchy thoughts sent a chill down your spin. _Not sorry. So not sorry._ [1]

_hahahahahahaha—now kill tha’ bastard King. Do it do it do it._

_I’m not killing Urahara! … yet …_

The Kurosakis growled in unison—the sound searing down to your gut. Your comfort level dropped to the dirt. Below the dirt. Below the underworld. You shifted from one foot to the other, far too aware of how two people were face-planting the ground on either side of you and both were thinking— 

“Right.” This was becoming your go-to word. “Right. Well. Is there really a sauna here?” Shit why did you say that?! You blamed it on the not-your-own thoughts crowding you head. You shoved the perverted guy’s – _Urahara, Kurosaki called him Urahara. Like the shop’s sign. That better be his last name_ – thoughts out but could not escape Kurosaki’s so easily. 

Kurosaki began staring at you again from his vantage point. 

_I never said anything about a saun—_

_Hehe~ let’s fuck him in tha’ sauna!_

_We’re not fucking him in the sauna! SHUT UP HOLLOW. How the hell does he know about it?_

Well, the good thing about multi-personality disorder was that it’d take him a while to piece together what each of the different personalities heard and come to the conclusion that you could read minds. _Thank god for small things._

“Why yes there is~!” Urahara popped right back up as though nothing unusual had just happened and tossed his arm back over your shoulder, just as he’d had it before. “Right this way friend-of-Ichigo’s~!” He summoned charmingly, a fan appearing in one hand to hide the other half of his face. 

By shoving his cheerfully raunchy thoughts out, you shoved out the thoughts carefully hidden underneath. If you hadn’t, you would’ve heard him contemplating who you were, why your spiritual energy emitted oddly, whether or not Kurosaki’s spiritual overflow had begun to affect you, and how Kurosaki really ought to have learned by now to control his reiatsu better but, ah well. You didn’t hear any of that. 

You heard the perverted thoughts. You saw the images of the sauna and body parts barely covered by towels. You heard Kurosaki’s mental argument and the vivid imagery of murdering Urahara with his fan in very inventive ways, and you promptly slid out from under Urahara’s arm. 

“I don’t need to see it!” you assured quickly, flailing your hands in front of you in a very useless but comforting manner because it provided a mini-wall to block out anyone daring to close in on you. IE: pervy old men. _Great, now I’m adopting Kurosaki’s mental names for people. Just great._ “I was just curious if there really was one. Now I know!” You turned to Kurosaki. “So, you normally work here?” 

“No.” Kurosaki scowled. 

Now it was your turn to scowl. If he didn’t work here, and the shop owner made the both of you uncomfortable, then why the hell were you two even here to begin with?! 

“Why are we here then?” you demanded. 

Kurosaki glared at Urahara. 

Urahara peered over his fan. 

Just looking at them and that expression they shared, a bystander would know a sandstorm was forthcoming. They wouldn’t even need to hear the thoughts you heard. 

_Ah, so Ichigo wants to take him to the spiritual world~?_

_Fucking bastard pervy old man don’t you dare touch him again—_

_Kill him in th’ desert. Kill him in th’ desert. Kill him in th’ desert._

They were both lunatics. They both wanted to murder you. They were working together!! 

You pushed down hard on the feeling bubbling up from your stomach, the urge to vomit and scream and the sweat coating the back of your neck. In this type of situation, it was important to stay calm. Otherwise, you might say something reckless. You couldn’t afford to say something reckless. Paying more attention to the environment you were in, you maneuvered yourself closer to a pile of candy – picking the candy up and inspecting it as though that was your intent – and circled around it so the candy stand remained between you and Kurosaki and Urahara and Death. 

“If we’re not here to work, I’ll assume we’re here to get candy. None of this looks very work-safe though,” you murmured, turning the candy over in pseudo-inspection. From the corner of your eye, you could see the two of them having an intense stare down. Even though your head felt like an axe was attempting to split it in two, you forced yourself to listen in. Forced yourself to focus on the different threads, on the ways they screamed and cascaded and reverberated in tight spaces with variable lighting and volatile emotions… maybe, if you focused well enough, you could implant that it was a _bad idea_ to ki— 

_Kill him kill him kill him kill him_

_Shut up Hollow! I’m not doing that fuck can’t you just shut up you said you’d shut up—_

_Ichigo may want to show him the spiritual world, but it’s not a good idea. This must be his project partner... Rukia complained about hers the other day. Ah~ well maybe he’ll buy some goods~!_

_If ya touch him, ya haven’t touched him_

_—I’m not fucking him!_

_King, King, King. Ya can’t deny yer instincts forever._

When a clock ticks in a room otherwise silent, you can hear the ticking for the first thirty seconds. After that, the sound begins to fade in and out of your concentration despite how closely you pay attention to it. It’s such a continuous minute sound that your ears grow accustomed to it and cease listening. Listening to Urahara’s thoughts, you could just faintly catch the _tick tick tick_ going on underneath the _hm~ how to get him to purchase a box of these~? Oh~ and these too. One can never have enough candy!_ But Kurosaki provided so much background noise that it drowned out the _tick tick tick_ of Urahara’s thoughts. Try as you might, you couldn’t dig further. It felt like uncovering the machinates of a puppetmaster and it made you very away of the sweat on the back of your neck and how your fingers shook as though too cold to control. 

You set the chocolate down. 

“Kurosaki?” 

He snapped to attention. “Hm? What? What?!” He scowled as you tried to fight off the gummy sensation in your mouth enough to excuse yourself from this shop—from potential fucking _death_. 

“If you’d like to work, I can offer you a room in the back~” Urahara proposed, shortcutting you. 

“Whatever. Shut up pervy old man.” Kurosaki shoved him aside and marched to the back. You took this as a cue and scurried after him quickly. Urahara peered over his fan at you as you passed. Shivers, like claws digging hard into your back, traveled down your spin. 

_It’s better to be in the same room as Kurosaki than Urahara_ , you decided because at least with Kurosaki you knew what he was thinking. 

All. 

The. 

Time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [1] I went back and forth on how Urahara’s character would react to reader. In the end, it seemed that he was most likely the type to be perverted no matter what situation (in part because he even describes himself as a “perverted businessman.”)


	12. (F) Chapter 6: Be Aware of All Possible Exits

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> female-reader perspective

Urahara’s Shop. The exterior appeared the definition of non-descript, with its overtly innocuous sign hanging above, a simple dark van with tinted windows parked on the side, bland walls, and general lack of decor. The whole building screamed subtle underground market for porno starved teens. 

Kurosaki sputtered beside you, his face reddening. 

“It does not!” 

“It totally does! Just look at that sign Kurosaki!” you pointed wildly at it. “I bet you fifty yen the shop owner is a pervert.” 

By the expression on Kurosaki’s face, you’d already won the bet. You held out your palm face up. Kurosaki scowled. 

“No. I’m not betting that. Come on. We have work we need to do.” _Fucking pain in the ass pervy old man better not make this worse damnit stupid fucking Hollow stupid fucking instincts stupid fucking—_

“Can we refrain from stupid fucking?” 

Kurosaki tripped over the doorframe. 

You buried your face in your hands. At this rate, you were going to either a) get killed b) reveal your stupid mind reading or c) end up in a mental ward. Possibly all three and maybe a grave too. You took comfort in blaming it on Kurosaki’s overpowering thoughts and your inability to block them out. If you could just block them, then you wouldn’t react to them! If he stopped thinking so loudly and forcefully and invasively, then you wouldn’t have to try so hard to block them out! 

_Ugh. This is circular logic._ You stepped over and around Kurosaki’s prone body to get into the shop. 

It was actually a candy and exotic foods shop. Piles and piles of candy, snacks, and other delicious foreign goodies that you could not recognize, even the ones purportedly from France, gleamed wickedly under the bright florescent lighting. They oozed chocolaty goodness in such a way as to turn even the most virtuous person into a glutton. 

“I guess it’s not a porno market…” You lifted up the nearest glowing candy from France and read the fine print. “’Caution: do not take with medicine. Contains liquor. Aphrodisiac.’ I stand corrected. Kurosaki!” You wheeled on him. Kurosaki was still on the floor with his face in the wood. “You owe me fifty yen. Pay up.” 

Kurosaki groaned, and you could swear his ears turned bright red. _Stupid fucking. She said no stupid fucking. She said no stupid fucking._

_Yea well don’t stupid fuck her then!_ Albino Kurosaki appeared pretty pissed. _Just fuck her stupid!_

_DAMNIT HOLLOW. SHU—_

_Shuddup, shuddup. Is tha’ all ya got? Get th’ fuck up before that pervert touches—_

An arm wrapped around your waist and pulled you close to a partially bare chest. “Ah~ welcome to my shop!” _Is this Ichigo’s friend? She’s so adorable—_

Stabbing and unfamiliar hands undressing you with totally inappropriate usages of chocolates and sieges of monsters fit only for boogieman stories flying out of jagged black holes and— _I’ll just pinch her butt~_

”DON’T TOUCH ME THERE!” You smacked him without thinking and he hit the ground hard. “Oh.” You leaned over him, your expression a hard and flat line. “I’m so terribly not sorry. You shouldn’t touch people so intimately without their permission.” Even lying crumpled on the ground, his hat hid the top half of his face. The combination of shadows over his eyes and his cheerfully raunchy thoughts sent a chill down your spin. For a split second, a truly terrible desire crossed your mind of seeing Kurosaki’s rampage in action on this perverted asshole. You shoved these thoughts out hard and fast, gripping your skirt tightly. 

_hahahahahahaha—now kill tha’ bastard King. Do it do it do it._

_I’m not killing Urahara! … yet …_

The Kurosakis growled in unison—the sound searing down to your gut. Your comfort level dropped to the dirt. Below the dirt. Below the underworld. You shifted from one foot to the other, far too aware of how two people were face-planting the ground on either side of you and both were thinking— 

“Right.” This was becoming your go-to word. “Right. Well. Is there really a sauna here?” Shit why did you say that?! You blamed it on the not-your-own thoughts crowding you head. You shoved the perverted guy’s – _Urahara, Kurosaki called him Urahara. Like the shop’s sign. That better be his last name_ – thoughts out but could not escape Kurosaki’s so easily. 

Kurosaki began staring at you again from his vantage point. 

_I never said anything about a saun—_

_Hehe~ let’s fuck her in tha’ sauna!_

_We’re not fucking her in the sauna! SHUT UP HOLLOW. How the hell does she know about it?_

Well, the good thing about multi-personality disorder was that it’d take him a while to piece together what each of the different personalities heard and come to the conclusion that you could read minds. _Thank god for small things._

“Why yes there is~!” Urahara popped right back up as though nothing unusual had just happened and tossed his arm over your shoulder this time, rightfully wary of a repeat knockout but obviously undeterred by the experience. _Asshole_ , you grit your teeth, thinking of all the perverted assholes in the world and failing to realize that, technically, Kurosaki fell under this category too and this didn’t bother you... “Right this way friend-of-Ichigo’s~!” Urahara added charmingly, a fan appearing in one hand to hide the other half of his face. 

By shoving his cheerfully raunchy thoughts out, you shoved out the thoughts carefully hidden underneath. If you hadn’t, you would’ve heard him contemplating who you were, why your spiritual energy emitted oddly, whether or not Kurosaki’s spiritual overflow had begun to affect you, and how Kurosaki really ought to have learned by now to control his reiatsu better but, ah well. You didn’t hear any of that. 

You heard the perverted thoughts. You saw the images of the sauna and body parts barely covered by towels. You heard Kurosaki’s mental argument and the vivid imagery of murdering Urahara with his fan in very inventive ways, and you promptly slid out from under Urahara’s arm. 

“I don’t need to see it!” you assured quickly, flailing your hands in front of you in a very useless but comforting manner because it provided a mini-wall to block out anyone daring to close in on you. IE: pervy old men. _Great, now I’m adopting Kurosaki’s mental names for people. Just great._ “I was just curious if there really was one. Now I know!” You turned to Kurosaki. “So, you normally work here?” 

“No.” Kurosaki scowled. 

Now it was your turn to scowl. If he didn’t work here, and the shop owner made the both of you uncomfortable, then why the hell were you two even here to begin with?! 

“Why are we here then?” you demanded. 

Kurosaki glared at Urahara. 

Urahara peered over his fan. 

Just looking at them and that expression they shared, a bystander would know a sandstorm was forthcoming. They wouldn’t even need to hear the thoughts you heard. 

_Ah, so Ichigo wants to take her to the spiritual world~?_

_Fucking bastard pervy old man don’t you dare touch her again—_

_Kill in th’ desert. Kill in th’ desert. Kill in th’ desert._

They were both lunatics. They both wanted to murder you. They were working together!! 

You pushed down hard on the feeling bubbling up from your stomach, the urge to vomit and scream and the sweat coating the back of your neck. In this type of situation, it was important to stay calm. Otherwise, you might say something reckless. You couldn’t afford to say something reckless. Paying more attention to the environment you were in, you maneuvered yourself closer to a pile of candy – picking the candy up and inspecting it as though that was your intent – and circled around it so the candy stand remained between you and Kurosaki and Urahara and Death. 

“If we’re not here to work, I’ll assume we’re here to get candy. None of this looks very work-safe though,” you murmured, turning the candy over in pseudo-inspection. From the corner of your eye, you could see the two of them having an intense stare down. Even though your head felt like an axe was attempting to split it in two, you forced yourself to listen in. Forced yourself to focus on the different threads, on the ways they screamed and cascaded and reverberated in tight spaces with variable lighting and volatile emotions… maybe, if you focused well enough, you could implant that it was a _bad idea_ to ki— 

_Kill him kill him kill him kill him_

_Shut up Hollow! I’m not doing that fuck can’t you just shut up you said you’d shut up—_

_Ichigo may want to show her the spiritual world, but it’s not a good idea. This must be his project partner... Rukia complained about hers the other day. Ah~ well maybe she’ll buy some goods~!_

_If ya touch her, ya haven’t touched her_

_—I’m not fucking her!_

_King, King, King. Ya can’t deny yer instincts forever._

When a clock ticks in a room otherwise silent, you can hear the ticking for the first thirty seconds. After that, the sound begins to fade in and out of your concentration despite how closely you pay attention to it. It’s such a continuous minute sound that your ears grow accustomed to it and cease listening. Listening to Urahara’s thoughts, you could just faintly catch the _tick tick tick_ going on underneath the _hm~ how to get her to purchase a box of these~? Oh~ and these too. One can never have enough aphrodisiacs!_ But Kurosaki provided so much background noise that it drowned out the _tick tick tick_ of Urahara’s thoughts. Try as you might, you couldn’t dig further. It felt like uncovering the machinates of a puppetmaster and it made you very away of the sweat on the back of your neck and how your fingers shook as though too cold to control. 

You set the chocolate down. 

“Kurosaki?” 

He snapped to attention. “Hm? What? What?!” He scowled as you tried to fight off the gummy sensation in your mouth enough to excuse yourself from this shop—from potential fucking _death_. 

“If you’d like to work, I can offer you a room in the back~” Urahara proposed, shortcutting you. 

“Whatever. Shut up pervy old man.” Kurosaki shoved him aside and marched to the back. You took this as a cue and scurried after him quickly. Urahara peered over his fan at you as you passed. Shivers, like claws digging hard into your back, traveled down your spin. 

_It’s better to be in the same room as Kurosaki than Urahara_ , you decided because at least with Kurosaki you knew what he was thinking. 

All. 

The. 

Time.


	13. (M) Chapter 7: When the Going Gets Tough...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **AN: Warning** – that earlier warning of how there’ll be mentions of a slightly messed up childhood go into effect now. Please take caution while reading. (It’s nothing major, but I’d rather be safe than sorry with my warnings.)
> 
> male-reader perspective

Urahara permitted the two of you to commander a traditional Japanese backroom, complete with sliding rice doors, flowery ink landscapes painted into the walls, a low wooden table, and seat cushions. He even provided you with steaming hot green tea. 

It was the one drink you abhorred. The overly steamy and muddled scent of almost-grass but not-quite-grass with absolutely zero flecks of sugar in it. You glowered down at the cute tea cup with its perfectly green liquid. The steamy tendrils teased your nose, offering up a delicious beverage that – once it touched your tongue – revealed its truly indifferent nature. 

“Do you want mine?” You nudged it over to Kurosaki who’d begun to pull out notebooks and papers and the like. A pile rapidly converged on the table. Soon you would no longer be able to see the wood beneath. You eyed the growing towers warily. “We need all that?” 

Kurosaki growled. 

_Uh…_ you eyed him warily too, as though your eyes would save your life if the situation called for it. Since Kurosaki was ignoring you, you decided to pick up one of the papers and inspect their relevancy to your project. Doodles of swords and strange samurai-like robes covered the first one you snagged, alongside haphazard chemistry notes and strange messages from “Kon” to “Ichigo”. You wondered if Kurosaki’s secondary personality took over for chemistry class, and which was more obsessed with swords. 

“Found it!” Kurosaki slapped a single sheet down in the center of the table. The chinaware clattered, the green tea sloshed to the side, and the towers of paper abandoned ship for the wood flooring. You leaned closer to read the ridiculously tiny and organized print. _I need a magnifying glass to read this…_

“Medicine?” you asked, because the single-word line items did little to explain whatever Kurosaki had been thinking could transform them into suitable and expansive yearlong projects. 

“Yeah, medicine.” 

“So what, the study of how medicine is made? The study of how medicine is administered? The study of how medicine combats ailments?” 

“It’s just a suggestion. I live at a clinic. We would have easy-access to medicine. We could accomplish the physical portion of the project.” 

You thought on this. Or rather, you thought on the fact that Kurosaki lived at a clinic. Did that mean he received daily care for his mental state? Or was he a run-away patient? Did he have a house? A family?! You were pretty sure he had at least a little sister, because a classmate had mentioned her soccer skills. 

“You live at a clinic?” You decided to keep the question as simple as possible to limit potential blowbacks. 

“My father’s a doctor.” 

“Oh.” Well then, he definitely was getting treatment. _I should speak to his father about how the treatment isn’t working_ , you decided. “Here’s my list. I kind of wrote everything on it, so it’s not exactly representative of my interests. Are you interested in medicine?” 

“Not really.” Kurosaki scanned your sheet quickly, “Greek mythology? _Grim reaper_?” Whoops, you’d written that in French. 

“Yeah, as in: the person that takes the souls to the dead.” 

Kurosaki froze up. He competed valiantly for Best Statue of the Year, complete with an expression fit to represent horror in the dictionary. 

“Is something the matter? Maybe I defined that inaccurately. Let me try again,” you thought quickly, making grabbing motions for the right words as though they floated on indoor air currents. Not for the first or last time, you wished you’d kept up on your Japanese from when you were younger. It would’ve made translating a thousand times easier. “It is when a person dies, they go someplace. But to get there, someone takes them. That someone, what do you call them?” 

“Shinigami?” 

“Really? I thought that meant God?” 

“No, well.” Kurosaki struggled to move his jaw when it had apparently been glued shut. “It literally means God of Death. But that’s the word you’re looking for.” 

“Okay then. Shinigami,” you tried smiling because Kurosaki wasn’t scowling. He wasn’t frowning. He was just frozen. To top it off, he wasn’t thinking. How were you supposed to know when he intended to kill you if he stopped thinking?! _Just keep talking. Distract him_ , you thought. “If death bothers you we don’t have to cover that topic. We can do another, like folklore.” 

“Folklore?” 

“Yeah like…” you tried to think of the most recent folklore you’d read that could easily be translated. “When the cat jumps over a grave and causes the person to—oh. Wait. No, no. Not that one.” 

“Kasha?!” [1]

“There’s other folklore! That doesn’t have to do with death!” 

“Death isn’t a problem!” Kurosaki rubbed the back of his neck. He tried to keep his cool, tried not to show everything he was thinking, and so he scowled. You heard this thought, and hearing it relieved you a bit. “It’s just, are you really interested in that kind of topic?” 

“I’m interested in literature,” you answered. “It’s why I chose this path. When you think of death in terms of literature, it’s influenced greatly by the environment it grows up in, by the people that experience it, and by the current events of that area when it happens. For example, did you know that before the European plague, the Grim Reaper – Shinigami for you – did not carry around scythes? It carried around bows and arrows instead. It was only after the plague that they were depicted with scythes, and it was in part because the scythe looks like the sickle: a farming tool that’s used to harvest food. So many people died at once, crowds of them, that they imagined the Grim Reaper was harvesting their souls with a sickle.” [2]

Kurosaki stared at you. “I didn’t know that.” 

“Exactly,” you couldn’t help but grin excitedly. “It’s interesting stuff! It’s literature!” You could go on and on and on and on about this topic for days on end: about how a phrase in one culture means something entirely different in another and how that influences literature, or how literature influenced culture to generate that phrase, or how folklore and mythology and legends vary from country to country but convey fundamentally similar themes. 

“Huh…” Kurosaki kept staring at you oddly. You thought the quiet of him not thinking would help sooth away your headache from him always thinking so loudly. It didn’t. He kept staring, not quite blankly but not quite focusing either. The sweat on the back of your neck from earlier had dried but now your palms sported their own brand of clamminess. Your heart picked up a steady pounding rhythm, in time to the pounding of your head. Everything felt off kilter. Kurosaki continued that odd staring. He was feeling something. It felt heady and strong, like alcohol that burned as it went down but left you tingly and warm and lightheaded afterwards. It was pleasant but it wasn’t a feeling to be felt now, Kurosaki insisted—and his thoughts exploded. 

_Quit it Hollow!_

_I ain’t doing tha’ King~!_ Albino Kurosaki cackled. _That’s all ya! Feel that instinct! Feel it! Act on it!_

“Kurosaki?” you called, concerned. _Maybe him not thinking is better than him thinking_. You struggled with this concept. The edge that hearing him think gave you—letting go of that edge would be like putting on a blindfold and walking through a forest barefoot. You could step on glass. You’d never see it coming. You’d just have to trust that the people walking beside you would keep an eye out for you. You definitely did not have that kind of trust on hand right now. 

Kurosaki had said something and you’d missed it. He was scowling at you again, a usual expression, and his exploding thoughts had transformed into a stilted battlefield – raging on and off and on and off into the distance. 

“Sorry?” you asked, pushing and shoving the battlefield into a closet with a door that just wouldn’t fucking close— 

“Ichigo.” 

You caught on quickly. “No. I’m not calling you Ichigo. I’m not calling you King. I’m not calling you Hollow. I’m calling you Kurosaki so fucking deal with it. Now, Kurosaki—” 

_King?_

_Hollow?_

_What the hell?! How does he know that?!_ Colorful Kurosaki got angry. Albino Kurosaki laughed manically. 

“—what are your thoughts on combing two abstract topics into a singular concrete topic?” Shitshitshit on a stick! You kept blabbering nonsense in the hopes of distracting him from your god-awful blunder. 

This is why headaches are bad. This is why Kurosaki’s overwhelming thoughts are bad. This is why letting your mouth get away from your brain is bad!! 

“How do you know?” He demanded. “Who are you? How the hell do you know?!” 

You leaned back just as Kurosaki reached a hand out to grab you by the collar. But you leaned back so quickly that you toppled over onto the floor. _Ow, wood hurts. Wood hurts_. You rubbed an elbow and thought quickly. “What are you talking about?” 

You’d wasted too much time thinking. 

Kurosaki had circled around the wooden table. You tried rolling away from him but he still managed to snag you by the shoulder. With a jerk, you found your personal space under attack and a familiar but more forceful scowl floating above you. 

He’d pinned you. 

Lovely. 

Your brain supplied dirty images that were definitely not conducive or applicable to a situation as dangerous as this— _this isn’t hot this isn’t hot_ , you chanted. Between the heat searing you and the cold sweat coating your neck, your body also couldn’t decide on fear or— _this isn’t hot this isn’t hot._

“Please get off me.” 

Albino Kurosaki thought of all the ways that sentence could be interpreted. Colorful Kurosaki cursed the shit out of him but instead of attacking, ignored him in favor of interrogating a certain classmate. 

“Start talking. Who the fuck are you?” 

“I don’t understand what you mean.” You tried thinking of happy things – like the wonderful French pastries you used to have for lunch every day and how your brother had tirelessly pushed you on the swing for hours on end when you were younger – but all the happy thoughts did not stem the sting in your eyes or push back the feeling of suffocating under water. Kurosaki wasn’t even touching you—aside from the hand still on your shoulder and where his knees pressed against your thighs. “Please get off.” 

Albino Kurosaki took pride in how his King had brought that expression to your face, but this sort of reaction, as he understood it, would not help with fucking later. Colorful Kurosaki argued that he hadn’t meant to upset you but Albino Kurosaki insisted he was following his baser instincts and that was good. 

The argument pounded at your brain and pounded and pounded and pounded and— 

Mother was on the phone again. You couldn’t hear her voice from the living room when she was in her office with the door closed, but if you focused close enough you could catch the thoughts. It was good to practice on her, you comforted yourself, because then it meant you were better at it when you were supposed to do it. With Mother, you weren’t _Wrong_. With Mother, you were always… _right_ —as long as you did well. In order to continue doing well, it was important to practice. 

She was assuring someone that you would be able to perform wonderfully that weekend and negotiating money. 

Your brother had been sent to timeout because he’d interrupted the last session. Although it had been scary, it was fine, really, you had assured Mother. You’d known you were in no real danger and that Mother would come in if you were and all you had to do was listen closely—but your brother yelled otherwise. He yelled at Mother for leaving you in a room alone with a malevolent stranger—and you weren’t quite sure what that word meant yet, being only five, but you understood that it had something to do with how the man had thought mechanically about the process of playing doctor on a living body—and he’d yelled at her for even thinking to use you for work and he’d yelled at her that This Was Wrong, which had only served to upset you because if This Was Wrong then You Were Wrong. 

Mother had grounded him for being rude. Mother had assured you that you were in no real danger. Even her wrought-iron thoughts had said the same: no real danger. So it was okay. 

It was okay. 

It was okay. 

“Hey,” Kurosaki nudged you and you flinched as though bitten. He raised his hands up slowly, placating. At some point, he’d moved off you and knelt on the side. The hardwood flooring dug into your back, reminding you of your earlier tumble and all the joints currently aching. Kurosaki stared at you. 

_What happened?_

You looked away, at the other wall, and squeezed your eyes shut as though this would shut out his thoughts. 

“What happened?” Kurosaki echoed his thoughts. 

“Well, gee.” You snapped, cold and cross and remembering the time Mother had said your brother was going to live with your father in Japan while you stayed with her in France. “You started screaming at me and jumped me! What the hell is your problem with me?!” Screaming at the inked wall wasn’t enough. You sat up to face Kurosaki. “Why do you want to kill me so badly?! Huh!? Is it ‘cause I’m a foreigner?! I’m not that different from the next person you know!” That wasn’t exactly the truth, but aside from your stupid telepathy and general wrongness you really weren’t that different. 

Kurosaki frowned a little less strongly than normal. “I don’t want to kill you.” He tried hard not to scowl at you directly, instead keeping the light frown. His forehead furrowed with the effort. “I just want to know what you meant by ‘King’ and by ‘Hollow.’” 

“Yeah, well, I meant you can go fuck yourself.” 

Kurosaki’s scowl broke through. “What the hell is your problem?!” 

“My problem is that I’m stuck with a psychopathic serial killer for a partner!” 

“I’m not a fucking serial killer!! Why the hell do you say that!” 

You opened your mouth and snapped it shut hard. _I can’t say that. I can’t say that. Fuck. Fuck. FUCK. How did I get so bad at hiding?!_

Urahara slid the door open. “Is there something the matter~?” He sang. 

“Go fuck yourself pervy old man!” Kurosaki flipped the table at him and wow that temper. 

“And you ask why I feel threatened by you,” you muttered. 

Urahara appeared behind Kurosaki. You have no idea how. All you know is that you blinked, and then Urahara had somehow gone from under the wooden table in the hallway to behind Kurosaki. He grabbed him by the back of his shirt and threw him out of the room. He then turned to you with a cheerful smile, “Please excuse us for a moment.” 

_—letting that Hollow get this out of control?—_

He swept out of the room, the door sliding shut behind him, and you could hear fighting and then arguing and then furniture or objects being thrown. 

Kurosaki’s thoughts were loud. They burned. They were liquid fire and frozen hell and all of the monsters under the bed. They hurt and they ached and they screamed. They were loud. 

You buried your head into your knees and wrapped your arms over your ears. Your cheeks were damp and you were pissed off at yourself, just as much as Kurosaki was pissed off at everything. 

_This isn’t some minor league anymore,_ you scolded yourself. _You know how to handle yourself. You should know how to handle yourself by now. You’ve got to get it together better. But Kurosaki’s thoughts are so… they’re so… they take up the whole country! Not just the room or the building, the country_! And you imagined the country filled with only Kurosaki’s thoughts, his thoughts being colored gold and everyone else’s being blue. The gold took over the country. The gold took over the world. The gold would take over the universe next. It leaked everywhere and bled onto everything and wanted all things and would not cease for even sleep.  [3]

Your cellphone rang. It was your brother. He wanted to know if your project meeting had finished by now and if so, if you’d like to meet up at the café for some pastries and then pick up dinner and head home. 

You agreed without thinking. 

You grabbed your bag and left Kurosaki to fight Kurosaki to fight Urahara to fight the world. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [1] Kasha is a type of Japanese yokai (demon) cat that “steals the corpses of those who have died as a result of accumulating evil deeds” and also can awaken the dead by jumping over their graves. (“… when a cat leaps over a coffin, the corpse inside the coffin will wake up”)
> 
> [2] Honestly, I forget where I got this but I remember reading up on how the Grim Reaper transformed over the years from beautiful men/women that came to take souls to the afterlife (I think this began in Norse mythology) to skeletal beings with scythes (by the end of the bubonic plague). 
> 
> [3] The color of Ichigo Kurosaki’s reiatsu is gold in the manga and blue in the anime. I thought this was interesting, particularly because Hollow Ichigo’s eyes are gold.


	14. (F) Chapter 7: When the Going Gets Tough...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **AN: Warning** – that earlier warning of how there’ll be mentions of a slightly messed up childhood go into effect now. Please take caution while reading. (It’s nothing major, but I’d rather be safe than sorry with my warnings.)
> 
> female-reader perspective

Urahara permitted the two of you to commander a traditional Japanese backroom, complete with sliding rice doors, flowery ink landscapes painted into the walls, a low wooden table, and seat cushions. He even provided you with steaming hot green tea. 

It was the one drink you abhorred. The overly steamy and muddled scent of almost-grass but not-quite-grass with absolutely zero flecks of sugar in it. You glowered down at the cute tea cup with its perfectly green liquid. The steamy tendrils teased your nose, offering up a delicious beverage that – once it touched your tongue – revealed its truly indifferent nature. 

“Do you want mine?” You nudged it over to Kurosaki who’d begun to pull out notebooks and papers and the like. A pile rapidly converged on the table. Soon you would no longer be able to see the wood beneath. You eyed the growing towers warily. “We need all that?” 

Kurosaki growled. 

_Uh…_ you eyed him warily too, as though your eyes would save your life if the situation called for it. Since Kurosaki was ignoring you, you decided to pick up one of the papers and inspect their relevancy to your project. Doodles of swords and strange samurai-like robes covered the first one you snagged, alongside haphazard chemistry notes and strange messages from “Kon” to “Ichigo”. You wondered if Kurosaki’s secondary personality took over for chemistry class, and which was more obsessed with swords. 

“Found it!” Kurosaki slapped a single sheet down in the center of the table. The chinaware clattered, the green tea sloshed to the side, and the towers of paper abandoned ship for the wood flooring. You leaned closer to read the ridiculously tiny and organized print. _I need a magnifying glass to read this…_

“Medicine?” you asked, because the single-word line items did little to explain whatever Kurosaki had been thinking could transform them into suitable and expansive yearlong projects. 

“Yeah, medicine.” 

“So what, the study of how medicine is made? The study of how medicine is administered? The study of how medicine combats ailments?” 

“It’s just a suggestion. I live at a clinic. We would have easy-access to medicine. We could accomplish the physical portion of the project.” 

You thought on this. Or rather, you thought on the fact that Kurosaki lived at a clinic. Did that mean he received daily care for his mental state? Or was he a run-away patient? Did he have a house? A family?! You were pretty sure he had at least a little sister, because a classmate had mentioned her soccer skills. 

“You live at a clinic?” You decided to keep the question as simple as possible to limit potential blowbacks. 

“My father’s a doctor.” 

“Oh.” Well then, he definitely was getting treatment. _I should speak to his father about how the treatment isn’t working_ , you decided. “Here’s my list. I kind of wrote everything on it, so it’s not exactly representative of my interests. Are you interested in medicine?” 

“Not really.” Kurosaki scanned your sheet quickly, “Greek mythology? _Grim reaper_?” Whoops, you’d written that in French. 

“Yeah, as in: the person that takes the souls to the dead.” 

Kurosaki froze up. He competed valiantly for Best Statue of the Year, complete with an expression fit to represent horror in the dictionary. 

“Is something the matter? Maybe I defined that inaccurately. Let me try again,” you thought quickly, making grabbing motions for the right words as though they floated on indoor air currents. Not for the first or last time, you wished you’d kept up on your Japanese from when you were younger. It would’ve made translating a thousand times easier. “It is when a person dies, they go someplace. But to get there, someone takes them. That someone, what do you call them?” 

“Shinigami?” 

“Really? I thought that meant God?” 

“No, well.” Kurosaki struggled to move his jaw when it had apparently been glued shut. “It literally means God of Death. But that’s the word you’re looking for.” 

“Okay then. Shinigami,” you tried smiling because Kurosaki wasn’t scowling. He wasn’t frowning. He was just frozen. To top it off, he wasn’t thinking. How were you supposed to know when he intended to kill you if he stopped thinking?! _Just keep talking. Distract him_ , you thought. “If death bothers you we don’t have to cover that topic. We can do another, like folklore.” 

“Folklore?” 

“Yeah like…” you tried to think of the most recent folklore you’d read that could easily be translated. “When the cat jumps over a grave and causes the person to—oh. Wait. No, no. Not that one.” 

“Kasha?!” [1]

“There’s other folklore! That doesn’t have to do with death!” 

“Death isn’t a problem!” Kurosaki rubbed the back of his neck. He tried to keep his cool, tried not to show everything he was thinking, and so he scowled. You heard this thought, and hearing it relieved you a bit. “It’s just, are you really interested in that kind of topic?” 

“I’m interested in literature,” you answered. “It’s why I chose this path. When you think of death in terms of literature, it’s influenced greatly by the environment it grows up in, by the people that experience it, and by the current events of that area when it happens. For example, did you know that before the European plague, the Grim Reaper – Shinigami for you – did not carry around scythes? It carried around bows and arrows instead. It was only after the plague that they were depicted with scythes, and it was in part because the scythe looks like the sickle: a farming tool that’s used to harvest food. So many people died at once, crowds of them, that they imagined the Grim Reaper was harvesting their souls with a sickle.” [2]

Kurosaki stared at you. “I didn’t know that.” 

“Exactly,” you couldn’t help but grin excitedly. “It’s interesting stuff! It’s literature!” You could go on and on and on and on about this topic for days on end: about how a phrase in one culture means something entirely different in another and how that influences literature, or how literature influenced culture to generate that phrase, or how folklore and mythology and legends vary from country to country but convey fundamentally similar themes. 

“Huh…” Kurosaki kept staring at you oddly. You thought the quiet of him not thinking would help sooth away your headache from him always thinking so loudly. It didn’t. He kept staring, not quite blankly but not quite focusing either. The sweat on the back of your neck from earlier had dried but now your palms sported their own brand of clamminess. Your heart picked up a steady pounding rhythm, in time to the pounding of your head. Everything felt off kilter. Kurosaki continued that odd staring. He was feeling something. It felt heady and strong, like alcohol that burned as it went down but left you tingly and warm and lightheaded afterwards. It was pleasant but it wasn’t a feeling to be felt now, Kurosaki insisted—and his thoughts exploded. 

_Quit it Hollow!_

_I ain’t doing tha’ King~!_ Albino Kurosaki cackled. _That’s all ya! Feel that instinct! Feel it! Act on it!_

“Kurosaki?” you called, concerned. _Maybe him not thinking is better than him thinking_. You struggled with this concept. The edge that hearing him think gave you—letting go of that edge would be like putting on a blindfold and walking through a forest barefoot. You could step on glass. You’d never see it coming. You’d just have to trust that the people walking beside you would keep an eye out for you. You definitely did not have that kind of trust on hand right now. 

Kurosaki had said something and you’d missed it. He was scowling at you again, a usual expression, and his exploding thoughts had transformed into a stilted battlefield – raging on and off and on and off into the distance. 

“Sorry?” you asked, pushing and shoving the battlefield into a closet with a door that just wouldn’t fucking close— 

“Ichigo.” 

You caught on quickly. “No. I’m not calling you Ichigo. I’m not calling you King. I’m not calling you Hollow. I’m calling you Kurosaki so fucking deal with it. Now, Kurosaki—” 

_King?_

_Hollow?_

_What the hell?! How does she know that?!_ Colorful Kurosaki got angry. Albino Kurosaki laughed manically. 

“—what are your thoughts on combing two abstract topics into a singular concrete topic?” Shitshitshit on a stick! You kept blabbering nonsense in the hopes of distracting him from your god-awful blunder. 

This is why headaches are bad. This is why Kurosaki’s overwhelming thoughts are bad. This is why letting your mouth get away from your brain is bad!! 

“How do you know?” He demanded. “Who are you? How the hell do you know?!” 

You leaned back just as Kurosaki reached a hand out to grab you by the bowtie. But you leaned back so quickly that you toppled over onto the floor and your bowtie came undone. _Ow, wood hurts. Wood hurts_. You rubbed an elbow and thought quickly. “What are you talking about?” 

You’d wasted too much time thinking. 

Kurosaki had circled around the wooden table. You tried rolling away from him but he still managed to snag you by the shoulder. With a jerk, you found your personal space under attack and a familiar but more forceful scowl floating above you. 

He’d pinned you. 

Lovely. 

Your brain supplied dirty images that were definitely not conducive or applicable to a situation as dangerous as this— _this isn’t hot this isn’t hot_ , you chanted. Between the heat searing you and the cold sweat coating your neck, your body also couldn’t decide on fear or— _this isn’t hot this isn’t hot._

“Please get off me.” 

Albino Kurosaki thought of all the ways that sentence could be interpreted. Colorful Kurosaki cursed the shit out of him but instead of attacking, ignored him in favor of interrogating a certain classmate. 

“Start talking. Who are you?” 

“You’re scaring me.” This was an honest statement. You tried thinking of happy things – like the wonderful French pastries you used to have for lunch every day and how your brother had tirelessly pushed you on the swing for hours on end when you were younger – but all the happy thoughts did not stem the sting in your eyes or push back the feeling of suffocating under water. Kurosaki wasn’t even touching you—aside from the hand still on your shoulder and where his knees pressed against your thighs. “Please let me go.” 

Albino Kurosaki took pride in how his King had brought that expression to your face, but this sort of reaction, as he understood it, would not help with fucking later. Colorful Kurosaki argued that he hadn’t meant to upset you but Albino Kurosaki insisted he was following his baser instincts and that was good. 

The argument pounded at your brain and pounded and pounded and pounded and— 

Mother was on the phone again. You couldn’t hear her voice from the living room when she was in her office with the door closed, but if you focused close enough you could catch the thoughts. It was good to practice on her, you comforted yourself, because then it meant you were better at it when you were supposed to do it. With Mother, you weren’t _Wrong_. With Mother, you were always… _right_ —as long as you did well. In order to continue doing well, it was important to practice. 

She was assuring someone that you would be able to perform wonderfully that weekend and negotiating money. 

Your brother had been sent to timeout because he’d interrupted the last session. Although it had been scary, it was fine, really, you had assured Mother. You’d known you were in no real danger and that Mother would come in if you were and all you had to do was listen closely—but your brother yelled otherwise. He yelled at Mother for leaving you in a room alone with a pedophilic stranger—and you weren’t quite sure what that word meant yet, being only five, but you understood that it had something to do with how the man had thought so intensely about your brother’s and your skin and how smooth it looked—and he’d yelled at her for even thinking to use you for work and he’d yelled at her that This Was Wrong, which had only served to upset you because if This Was Wrong then You Were Wrong. 

Mother had grounded him for being rude. Mother had assured you that you were in no real danger. Even her wrought-iron thoughts had said the same: no real danger. So it was okay. 

It was okay. 

It was okay. 

“Hey,” Kurosaki nudged you and you flinched as though bitten. He raised his hands up slowly, placating. At some point, he’d moved off you and knelt on the side. The hardwood flooring dug into your back, reminding you of your earlier tumble and all the joints currently aching. Kurosaki stared at you. 

_What happened?_

You looked away, at the other wall, and squeezed your eyes shut as though this would shut out his thoughts. 

“What happened?” Kurosaki echoed his thoughts. 

“Well, gee.” You snapped, cold and cross and remembering the time Mother had said your brother was going to live with your father in Japan while you stayed with her in France. “You started screaming at me and jumped me! What the hell is your problem with me?!” Screaming at the inked wall wasn’t enough. You sat up to face Kurosaki. “Why do you want to kill me so badly?! Huh!? Is it ‘cause I’m a foreigner?! I’m not that different from the next person you know!” That wasn’t exactly the truth, but aside from your stupid telepathy and general wrongness you really weren’t that different. 

Kurosaki frowned a little less strongly than normal. “I don’t want to kill you.” He tried hard not to scowl at you directly, instead keeping the light frown. His forehead furrowed with the effort. “I just want to know what you meant by ‘King’ and by ‘Hollow.’” 

“Yeah, well, I meant you can go fuck yourself.” 

Kurosaki’s scowl broke through. “What the hell is your problem?!” 

“My problem is that I’m stuck with a psychopathic serial killer for a partner!” 

“I’m not a fucking serial killer!! Why the hell do you say that!” 

You opened your mouth and snapped it shut hard. _I can’t say that. I can’t say that. Fuck. Fuck. FUCK. How did I get so bad at hiding?!_

Urahara slid the door open. “Is there something the matter~?” He sang. 

“Go fuck yourself pervy old man!” Kurosaki flipped the table at him and wow that temper. 

“And you ask why I feel threatened by you,” you muttered. 

Urahara appeared behind Kurosaki. You have no idea how. All you know is that you blinked, and then Urahara had somehow gone from under the wooden table in the hallway to behind Kurosaki. He grabbed him by the back of his shirt and threw him out of the room. He then turned to you with a cheerful smile, “Please excuse us for a moment.” 

_—letting that Hollow get this out of control?—_

He swept out of the room, the door sliding shut behind him, and you could hear fighting and then arguing and then furniture or objects being thrown. 

Kurosaki’s thoughts were loud. They burned. They were liquid fire and frozen hell and all of the monsters under the bed. They hurt and they ached and they screamed. They were loud. 

You buried your head into your knees and wrapped your arms over your ears. Your cheeks were damp and you were pissed off at yourself, just as much as Kurosaki was pissed off at everything. 

_This isn’t some minor league anymore,_ you scolded yourself. _You know how to handle yourself. You should know how to handle yourself by now. You’ve got to get it together better. But Kurosaki’s thoughts are so… they’re so… they take up the whole country! Not just the room or the building, the country_! And you imagined the country filled with only Kurosaki’s thoughts, his thoughts being colored gold and everyone else’s being blue. The gold took over the country. The gold took over the world. The gold would take over the universe next. It leaked everywhere and bled onto everything and wanted all things and would not cease for even sleep.  [3]

Your cellphone rang. It was your brother. He wanted to know if your project meeting had finished by now and if so, if you’d like to meet up at the café for some pastries and then pick up dinner and head home. 

You agreed without thinking. 

You grabbed your bag and left Kurosaki to fight Kurosaki to fight Urahara to fight the world. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [1] Kasha is a type of Japanese yokai (demon) cat that “steals the corpses of those who have died as a result of accumulating evil deeds” and also can awaken the dead by jumping over their graves. (“… when a cat leaps over a coffin, the corpse inside the coffin will wake up”)
> 
> [2] Honestly, I forget where I got this but I remember reading up on how the Grim Reaper transformed over the years from beautiful men/women that came to take souls to the afterlife (I think this began in Norse mythology) to skeletal beings with scythes (by the end of the bubonic plague). 
> 
> [3] The color of Ichigo Kurosaki’s reiatsu is gold in the manga and blue in the anime. I thought this was interesting, particularly because Hollow Ichigo’s eyes are gold.


	15. (M) Chapter 8: Return to Roots

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I realized, sometime while editing this for the fourth time and deciding that whatever state this wound up in it needed to be posted, that this chapter would probably be rather depressing for everyone and was likely being influenced by real life (moved, grandma died, finally got driver’s license, stuff stuff stuff)…
> 
> Well, it’s backstory, and it’s needed for the second arc of the plot (cause the first arc will be resolving itself shortly) and I debated too much on keeping it or not so here we go!
> 
> (apologies for not posting this sooner, it’s hard to find time to write and edit when so many stressful things are going on; and now you awkwardly know a bit much about me weeeee~)
> 
>  
> 
> **male-reader perspective**

You remember the last time you saw your dad as clear as if it happened last night: your fifth birthday, your last night in Japan. 

The birthday hadn’t gone so well. To start, the never-ending ache in your head had felt bigger – like an elephant had moved in with the herd of stampeding gazelle and there just wasn’t any room left for the tigers and bears that wished to join in the circus. Mother didn’t understand – she couldn’t. To top it off, Dad had run off in the morning to help a friend. Again. This left Mother entirely in charge of the festivities, or lack thereof, and so she decided that going to the park would be the best course of action. The park would improve any underwhelming birthday by providing swings and more screaming vermin, and leaving Mother with ample time to focus on her more pressing duties of strange origins. 

The park endeavors ended with your knees scrapped, a bunch of disgruntled parents, and blood covering both your brother and the kid that had said not-aloud that you were ‘a freak of nature that should be put down.’ The celebrations were followed by Mother listening to you and refusing to allow your very kind neighbors over to cook dinner at your house, because you had vowed on your favorite stuffed animal that they just wanted to steal more of Dad’s treasures. 

A lovely birthday indeed. 

The only upside was your vow convinced Mother to let the three cats that always followed you around, a black cat, a white cat, and an orange tabby, inside the house. 

~

It was sometime incredibly late, between translating the stories the cats shared so your brother could understand and noticing Mother’s far-away gaze locked on you as she drifted around the edge of the room, that Dad returned with a far too cheerful for the hour, “I’m home~!” and graced you with the last moment you’d ever see him. 

“Dad!” You darted towards the front door and tackled him with all your bodily weight, intent on smothering him with hugs so that he might think twice about leaving for work on your birthday. He caught you with a laugh, the kind that made the whole room brighten despite Mother’s sharply-edged blankness and your brother’s careful distance from the door. “I missed you!” 

“I’ve only been gone a few hours, silly,” he flipped you upside-down and right-side up, spinning you until you laughed too, feeling dizzy and like you might fly to the sun. 

“It was forever!” 

“Welcome home sweetheart.” Mother said, drifting over to peck Dad on the cheek. The way she said it reminded you of a clock ticking to the next minute hand. An action not entirely desired, but required. You figured Mother didn’t know how to properly greet someone, the same way she didn’t understand how to smile correctly, and so you gave Dad an extra tight squeezing hug, as though showing would convey all that you meant to say. Mother only smiled at you with her teeth as she always did, and not her eyes, but her eyes took the entirety of you in them, and so you figured she was at least learning one part of how to smile. 

“Dad, will you push me on the swings so I can jump to the moon?” You squirmed around in his hold, your excitement too much to contain. It would burst like a dinosaur out of a ship to America! Or something of the such… If Dad took you to the park, then the other kids and parents would leave you alone. They’d stare at him, at how happy and charming and brilliant he was, and return to being normal people. It was like Dad’s appearance lifted a magical curse. 

“Certainly my dear son,” he answered. “I’ll even teach you how to swing.” 

“I don’t want to learn that.” 

His eyebrows quirked upwards in surprise, “Oh?” He pressed. 

“If I learn that, then I’ll have to push myself and you and big brother won’t push me anymore. I don’t want to learn that. I want to learn how to make a fire or be a king!” 

He smiled, his eyes crinkling with little stars and his arms hugging you closer. “That’s my little munchkin.” You never had a headache around him. It wasn’t just that his mouth always matched the words he said, whereas with other people this wasn’t the case—no, it was also that the pictures he played, they were all of you. It was only you in his eyes and his ears and his smiles. You took up everything. You, and sunshine, and hot chocolate, and cats, and everything that made the world warm up after a chilling winter. 

But in this moment, it wasn’t just the standard you-take-up-everything sensation. It had an extra dash of warmth, an extra dash of hot chocolate, an extra dash that said he’d share your words with all his friends and coworkers – the dash that said he was _proud of you_ and _proud of your logic_. The feeling ballooned you up and up and up until you’d _definitely_ soar out the roof. 

Mother popped that balloon with a hand on Dad’s shoulder. 

“Sweetheart, it’s dark out. It’s much too late to go to the park.” 

“Oh, we’ll be fine. I’ll bring a flashlight. I won’t let him out of my sight. Mommy, can’t we go to the park~?” He gave her a doleful expression. When he called her Mommy, it made you think twice about calling her Mother. The same way of how when Mother smiled with her teeth and not her eyes, you smiled with your eyes so she might think twice about how to smile. 

She returned with her usual expressionless appearance, but with an ounce of disapproval. You slumped in Dad’s arms. It would be difficult to erase that from her face, and more so to remind her of all the reasons why you were needed. 

While you were looking away, your head buried in Dad’s shoulder, they shared a few more varied expressions, and then Dad’s stance changed. 

He set you down softly, as one would lower a newborn kitten to the ground, and crouched down to look you in the eye. “I’m very sorry sweetie, but it would seem I forgot about the Mom-and-Dad Time promise I made this morning.” 

“You never break your promises.” 

“No, I don’t.” 

You stared down at the floor. It was your birthday, so it was okay to be a little selfish and unhappy that you weren’t going to get to spend time with Dad. It was okay to be unhappy that Mother was taking up that time. 

“How about,” he added, urging you to look back up at his brown eyes and even taking his glasses off to get a better look at you. “How about I promise we’ll spend some Father-and-Son Time together in the future. Hm?” 

He held out a picky. With a smile, you shook on it. “Okay.” He never broke his promises. 

Sometimes, your pinky still tingled with that unfulfilled one. 

You whirled to Mother, hugging her legs briefly – exactly ten seconds, the maximum time Mother would allow contact, and Mother patted your head twice, the maximum amount Mother would pat your head. “Why don’t you go play with your brother?” She suggested without inflection. 

“Okay!” You answered, with an extra bought of inflection. 

As soon as you were close enough, your brother snatched up your hand and began dragging you off towards the stairs. “Let’s play Cowboys and Indians.” There was somebody at the door. Somebody different, somebody strange. You whirled around, letting go of your brother’s hand, to look back at the door. Mother stood there. Dad stood there. Dad’s gaze lifted from Mother, sweeping over you with a slow little tilt of his head and lift of his eyebrow—but nobody stood beside them. Nobody strange. Your brother rested a hand on you again, and the strange person flashed in and out of your eyes, right there beside Dad. “Do you want to play something else?” Your brother asked. You stared at the person beside Dad—but there wasn’t a person there at all—and felt another terrible elephant of a headache trampeding through your head. Dad smiled, his eyes crinkling with little stars and moons. 

It was better not to ask. 

“Kitties!” You summoned, and all three cats rose to attention, falling into a perfect line behind you and your leading brother. “I wanna be a Cowboy.” You answered, letting him pull you upstairs. 

“You were a Cowboy last time, be an Indian!” 

“What, so you can throw me from the top bed again and kill me on my birthday?” 

“Okay, fine. But only cause it’s your birthday. On my birthday, we’re playing race cars and I get the red car.” 

When you reached the top of the stairs, you realized your hand was hurting. 

“You’re squeezing my hand too hard.” 

“Sorry—” 

“No, it’s okay.” You said, squeezing his hand back. “It…” You tried to quantify the reasons why it was okay, tried to think in the mechanical way that Mother did. It was difficult. “It means you need me.” That sufficed. “I like being needed. If I’m needed, then I’m useful.” You smiled without your teeth, “And if I’m useful, then I’m—” 

“No!” The shout startled you. Your brother covered his mouth, checking between the railings down to the entryway and living room. A few minutes ticked by with nothing happening, nothing except for your brother’s hand squeezing your own and relaxing. He turned back to you, pulling you closer. “No, that’s not how it works.” He hugged you, encasing you in warmth and hiding you from the rest of the world. “I want you. Even if I don’t need you, I want you. That’s how it works. Family wants each other. Got it?” 

“Okay.” His clothes muffled your words. “Okay,” you repeated, nodding your head into his shoulder and feeling him hug you harder, as though you might vanish if he didn’t hold on properly. 

“Now come on. Let’s go play Cowboys and Indians. Since it’s your birthday, you get to pick the rules and place. Outside or inside?” 

“Inside, a desert, with the nerfs.” You stumbled after him, rubbing at your eyes because they were wet again—it was ‘cause he hugged you too hard, that’s all! 

The cats followed after, a herd of silent spectators. There, but as little more than an audience of shining eyes and swishing tails. They could do nothing for the world. Nothing, but watch, listen, hear, and be there. 

In the morning, you’d wake up to a packed bag and Mother whisking both you and your brother off to France. Dad would be nowhere in sight. On the way to the airport, Mother would carry you. The world, from the vantage of Mother’s arms, would look quite different than how it looked in Dad’s arms. It was a difference you would attempt to understand all the way to France, but wouldn’t be able to quite comprehend. 

It just felt different. 

~

The difference grew more and more apparent in the following years. It started with your brother throwing fits about how you were taken on daily “adventures” – mind reading your way from ‘freakish’ to ‘unique’ – progressed to your brother going to live with Dad in Japan, a strange lack of contact with him – severing if you were honest about how many times your brother figured out your new number and address in order to re-connect with you and Mother changed it all again – and culminated with Dad’s death. 

When you learned this just five months ago, right at the end of your junior year and before the start of the summer, you couldn’t quite believe the words leaving Mother’s mouth. 

“You’ll be living with your older brother from now on in Japan. While you’re there, pay your respects to your father. He passed away a month ago.” 

For one—what the hell?!!? Why hadn’t she said Dad had died sooner?! What did she even mean, you’ll be living with your brother in Japan?! You hardly knew the language anymore, with how hard Mother had worked to ensure you never practiced and your brother so accommodating that he spoke to you in whatever language you preferred! 

No matter how persistent you were, how deeply you dug into Mother’s brain, you couldn’t get a straight or satisfactory enough answer. When you got to Japan less than a month later, your brother had done his best to answer your questions— 

’How’d Dad die?’ 

’Win custody of me? When were you going to tell me about this?!’ 

’What does this Japanese word mean?’ 

Dad’s death couldn’t really be explained because he’d been a yakuza member. Your brother chalked it up to bad business, but whatever he’d written in his will had gotten his old yakuza to pull strings and cause him to win the custody case. Said case had been going on for at least two years, but he didn’t want to worry you about it especially when things had looked so hopeless for so long and so he hadn’t said anything and he’s very sorry and also that word means “fried chicken” would you like some? 

It was good you’d gotten here over the summer. It gave you the chance to acclimate and get used to the new town and familiarize yourself with Japanese words and customs all over again. 

Frequently, your heart ached for France, for your friends even though none of them knew about your oddness (an unfortunate, or perhaps necessary, precaution ensured by Mother). Your brother had offered to move there, so you could be close to friends and whatnot—but you both new that wasn’t an option. As soon as you were in the same country as Mother, she would pull strings and then you’d be back in the salt mines of mind reading. You would think, having grown up being demanded to read minds as much as you had, you were at least decently able of pushing out other people’s thoughts. 

And you were! 

For everyone except Kurosaki. 

_Fucking Kurosaki and his fucking thoughts and his fucking split personality and his fucking sword and his—_

The type of headache brought on by mind reading can best be equated to a six on a Richter scale. That leaves three points of room to think with all that chaos. Three points that really don’t do much. With Kurosaki, the headache reaches a nice firm Nine (with a capital N) on the Richter scale. 

“I’m surprised this didn’t happen sooner.” Your brother announced after your pitiful spiel. His words pulled you back into the present day and now, into the present lack of passionate and sensual mental stimulus, into the present peace and quiet. 

You’d been determined to say nothing, and since your brother couldn’t read your mind it would’ve worked too. Except he knew you, had known you since you were born, and knew when you were off and knew how to press your buttons and how to make you bawl like a fucking baby. At times like these, you really wanted to hate him but you couldn’t. You didn’t have the capacity to feel that kind of strong emotion for someone who’d been there for you. 

“Why do you say that?” 

You’d exhausted yourself of emotions. All you felt right now was the dampness of your cheeks and the aches in your bones. 

“Think about it,” he reasoned, tapping your head. You pulled away with a glower. “You’ve been complaining since school started about headaches, and you’ve been complaining about this kid’s loudness, and you’ve been having more difficulty translating your thoughts between languages. You’re exhausted.” He sighed. Running a hand through his hair, he considered the ceiling for a moment, and then you again with a critical gaze. “I should’ve just moved you the first time you mentioned something like this…” 

“No, I like it here!” You insisted and crawled into your brother’s lap. You felt like a five-year-old again, with your Big Bad Brother there to hug away the Big Scary Thoughts. He dutifully wrapped his arms around you, letting you tangle yourself up in his limbs and lean against him. Inside this warm cocoon, the world vanished. First the living room with its bland walls. Then the rest of the two-bedroom apartment. Then the rest of the building. Then the whole country. No noise or thoughts reached you here because just as your brother could not hear your thoughts, you could not read his mind—not unless he allowed it. 

“I wouldn’t send you back to France,” he murmured. Even without being able to read your thoughts, he’d hit your concerns on the nose. _This is my brother, of course he knows what I’m worried about,_ you scolded yourself. “You’d just switch schools.” 

“Would we still live together?” 

“I’d figure something out.” 

You sighed. “I should get a job to help with rent—” 

“Nope~ you focus on school.” He ordered. “That’s your job. Mine is to make sure you do yours.” 

“Haha,” you said dryly. “Very funny.” 

He pinched you and you hit him for the offense, tumbling into a wrestling match. He feigned a dramatic defeat and you crowed your victory from your perch on his chest. Then he pinched you again. When the battle finally ended with the both of you exhausted, you dozed on the carpet next to him. 

“So tell me about him.” 

“Huh?” You’d almost fallen asleep. What time was it even? Late? It felt late. You couldn’t be sure because the curtains in the living room were closed, and there was only one poorly functioning lamp in here that threw light onto the things closest to it. You’d wound up on the floor behind the couch, so you and your brother were not amongst the “things to light up” according to the lamp. 

“This terrible Giver of Headaches. Tell me about him.” 

You scowled. “I told you: he’s a homicidal bipolar pervert that wants to murder-suicide everyone in the world.” 

“Murder-suicide?” 

“Yeah, like that comedy.” 

He grunted. He didn’t remember. It was an American romantic comedy that you’d watched as a French assignment, so you didn’t press. [1] Resting your head on your brother’s arm, you sought sleep. 

“Yeah, but what’s he like outside of his thoughts?” 

“An asshole. He scowls all the time. He yells a lot.” 

“Hm.” He wasn’t convinced. 

Oh, damn him and his non-mind-reading attention to detail! 

“He’s kind of handsome. If you squint. Hard.” 

“Uh-huh,” he hummed in a ‘ah, so now we’re getting closer’ kind of way. “And?” 

You scowled and squirmed to squish your brother. “He’s got muscles.” 

“Oh~ muscles~?” He asked teasingly, the sound rumbling in his chest. 

“Shut it!” you smushed his face into the carpeting. He laughed. 

“Hey, hey! If I died, how will you pay the bills?” 

“I’ll start a medium service! I’ll make all the money!” 

“Uh-huh. And what about when this kind-of-handsome muscles kid finds you? Then what?” 

“Ass!” 

You wrestled with him again until you were exhausted and gave up. Your brother let you catch your breath. 

“Okay, are you ready for this?” 

“Oh gods no. What? What?” 

“Serious time.” 

“… that’s it?” 

“Come, on: serious time.” 

“Okay, okay. Serious time. What?” 

“On a scale of one to ten, how concerned should I be with reporting his mental state to the police?” 

You blinked up at your brother. That was a serious question. 

“I don’t know…” 

He waited patiently as you thought on it. 

“I think…” you hesitated. Even thinking of saying it, voicing your inner thoughts, seemed ridiculous. But this was your brother. He’d grown up with the abnormal. He wouldn’t judge you. Ever. (Or if he did, you would never hear it.) “I think he’s possessed.” 

Your brother nodded. He didn’t seem surprised. 

“Okay, no reporting. Yet.” 

He rolled off you and back onto the floor. 

“He said his dad’s a doctor, right? Then you should ask him if he’s being treated for multiple-personality disorder and if he’s not, assume that he’s got something else cramped up in his head.” He rolled onto his side now, so he could stare down at you. His eyes reflected the lamplight in a manner akin to a cat. “Maybe he’s like you?” 

“I doubt that.” You snorted. “Nobody is like me.” 

The downside of being unable to read your brother’s mind was that he could hide things very easily from you. He could hide how he’d managed to wrangle custody of you from Mother and claim that Dad’s death and old yakuza had helped the court see the light of day. Bullshit. He could hide whether or not he actually thought your cooking was any good. You were pretty sure it was crap. 

He could hide what he was thinking right now and why he wasn’t nearly as concerned about Kurosaki’s mental state-of-being as he’d been about that axe-murderer you’d helped Mother catch when you were five. He could hide it with his ability to read you without you saying anything! 

“It just sounds like you’re trying to find an excuse to not have a crush on him.” 

“Am I speaking aloud?” 

“No, and before you ask no! I’m not reading your mind. I don’t have to with the way you’re staring at me. Oh, relax would you? I’m not an axe-murderer! Geez. If I was you’d be dead, wouldn’t you?” 

You muttered things about uncertainty and how axe-murderers had great patience. Your brother rolled his eyes and finally got up to put the takeout away. 

With a sigh, you evaluated the white ceiling for faults and cracks. There were none. 

_He’s my brother._ That was true. 

_He takes good care of me._ Better than Mother ever did. 

_He knows what’s best._ That was debatable, as no one really knew ‘what was best’ in your eyes. You swallowed the thought regardless, swallowed it and let your muscles relax, let your eyes slide shut, let sleep claim you as its victim. At some point, you got the sense that you were floating— _brother is putting me in a bed._ You drew comfort from this, cocooned in the knowledge that nothing would get you so long as it had to go through your brother. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [1] If you got the “Murder-suicide” reference, yay! If not, that’s okay, I never get movie/book references either. It’s a line from Obvious Child (2014 movie).
> 
>  
> 
> **RAMBLINGS**
> 
> This was one of the most difficult chapters to edit, in part because (in my opinion) it’s difficult to incorporate backstory in fanfiction without interrupting the flow of the story, the fandom, and the primary interest of reading for the fandom and not original work (because let’s face it, we typically read fanfiction to read about our favorite characters and not original characters, and reader can be classified as original character).
> 
> I’d love feedback on how you guys felt reading through it, particularly on believability and transitions.
> 
> Also, also, also: if you can guess what the second arc will be, I’ll be impressed. ;) (Hint: first arc is hiding reader’s mind-reading)


	16. (F) Chapter 8: Return to Roots

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I realized, sometime while editing this for the fourth time and deciding that whatever state this wound up in it needed to be posted, that this chapter would probably be rather depressing for everyone and was likely being influenced by real life (moved, grandma died, finally got driver’s license, stuff stuff stuff)…
> 
> Well, it’s backstory, and it’s needed for the second arc of the plot (cause the first arc will be resolving itself shortly) and I debated too much on keeping it or not so here we go!
> 
> (apologies for not posting this sooner, it’s hard to find time to write and edit when so many stressful things are going on; and now you awkwardly know a bit much about me weeeee~)
> 
>  
> 
> **female-reader perspective**

You remember the last time you saw your dad as clear as if it happened last night: your fifth birthday, your last night in Japan. 

The birthday hadn’t gone so well. To start, the never-ending ache in your head had felt bigger – like an elephant had moved in with the herd of stampeding gazelle and there just wasn’t any room left for the tigers and bears that wished to join in the circus. Mother didn’t understand – it was your own fault for being unable to explain it well. To top it off, Daddy had run off in the morning to help a friend – again. This left Mother entirely in charge of the festivities, or lack thereof, and so she decided that going to the park would be the best course of action. The park would improve any underwhelming birthday by providing swings and more screaming vermin, and leaving Mother with ample time to focus on her more pressing duties of unknown origins. 

The park endeavors ended with you crying, a bunch of disgruntled parents, and blood covering both your brother and the kid that had said not-aloud that you were ‘an ugly girlie monster that should be put down.’ The celebrations were followed by Mother listening to you and refusing to allow your very kind neighbors over to cook dinner at your house, because you had vowed on your favorite stuffed animal that they just wanted to steal more of Daddy’s treasures. 

A lovely birthday indeed. 

The only upside was your vow convinced Mother to let the three cats that always followed you around, a black cat, a white cat, and an orange tabby, inside the house. 

~

It was sometime incredibly late, between translating the stories the cats shared so your brother could understand and noticing Mother’s far-away gaze locked on you as she drifted around the edge of the room, that Dad returned with a far too cheerful for the hour, “I’m home~!” and graced you with the last moment you’d ever see him. 

“Daddy!” You darted towards the front door and tackled him with all your bodily weight, intent on smothering him with affections so that he might think twice about leaving for work on your birthday. He caught you with a laugh, the kind that made the whole room brighten despite Mother’s sharply-edged blankness and your brother’s careful distance from the door. “I missed you! I missed you! I missed you!” 

“I’ve only been gone a few hours, sweetie,” he dipped you and spun you and you laughed too, feeling dizzy and like you might fly out through the roof. 

“It was forever!” 

“Welcome home sweetheart.” Mother said, drifting over to peck Dad on the cheek. The way she said it reminded you of a clock ticking to the next minute hand. An action not entirely desired, but required. You figured Mother didn’t know how to properly greet someone, the same way she didn’t understand how to smile correctly, and so you gave Dad a giant slobbery smooch on the other cheek, as though showing would convey all that you meant to say. Mother only smiled at you with her teeth as she always did, and not her eyes, but her eyes took the entirety of you in them, and so you figured she was at least learning one part of how to smile. 

“Daddy, Daddy, will you push me on the swings?” You squirmed around in his hold, your excitement too much to contain. It would burst like the sun behind a storm of rain clouds! Or something of the such… If Dad took you to the park, then the other kids and parents wouldn’t be so mean. They’d stare at him, at how happy and charming and brilliant he was, and return to being the kind people they actually were. It was like Dad’s appearance lifted a magical curse. 

“Certainly my dear sweetie,” he answered. “I’ll even teach you how to swing.” 

“I don’t want to learn that.” 

His eyebrows quirked upwards in surprise, “Oh?” He pressed. 

“If I learn that, then I’ll have to push myself and you and big brother won’t push me anymore. I don’t want to learn that. I want to ‘catch’ or how to get other people to push me on the swing!” 

He smiled, his eyes crinkling with little stars and his arms hugging you closer. “That’s my little darling.” You never had a headache around him. It wasn’t just that his mouth always matched the words he said, whereas with other people this wasn’t the case—no, it was also that the pictures he played, they were all of you. It was only you in his eyes and his ears and his smiles. You took up everything. You, and sunshine, and rainbows, and cats, and everything that made the world warm up after a chilling winter. 

But in this moment, it wasn’t just the standard you-take-up-everything sensation. It had an extra dash of warmth, an extra dash of rainbows, an extra dash that said he’d share your words with all his friends and coworkers – the dash that said he was _proud of you_ and _proud of your logic_. The feeling ballooned you up and up and up until you’d _definitely_ float out the roof. 

Mother popped that balloon with a hand on Dad’s shoulder. 

“Sweetheart, it’s dark out. It’s much too late to go to the park.” 

“Oh, we’ll be fine. I’ll bring a flashlight. I won’t let her out of my sight. Mommy, can’t we go to the park~?” He gave her a doleful expression. When he called her Mommy, it made you think twice about calling her Mother. The same way of how when Mother smiled with her teeth and not her eyes, you smiled with your eyes so she might think twice about how to smile. 

She returned with her usual expressionless appearance, but with an ounce of disapproval. You slumped in Dad’s arms. It would be difficult to erase that from her face, and more so to remind her of all the reasons why you were needed. 

While you were looking away, your head buried in Dad’s shoulder, they shared a few more varied expressions, and then Dad’s stance changed. 

He set you down softly, as one would lower a newborn kitten to the ground, and crouched down to look you in the eye. “I’m very sorry sweetie, but it would seem I forgot about the Mommy-and-Daddy Time promise I made this morning.” 

“You never break your promises.” 

“No, I don’t.” 

You stared down at the floor. It was your birthday, so it was okay to be a little selfish and unhappy that you weren’t going to get to spend time with Dad. It was okay to be unhappy that Mother was taking up that time. 

“How about,” he added, urging you to look back up at his brown eyes. You wondered where his glasses were right now. “How about I promise we’ll spend some Father-and-Daughter Time together in the future. Hm?” 

He held out a picky. With a smile, you shook on it. “Okay.” He never broke his promises. 

Sometimes, your pinky still tingled with that unfulfilled one. 

You whirled to Mother, hugging her legs briefly – exactly ten seconds, the maximum time Mother would allow contact, and Mother patted your head twice, the maximum amount Mother would pat your head. “Why don’t you go play with your brother?” She suggested without inflection. 

“Okay!” You answered, with an extra bought of inflection. 

As soon as you were close enough, your brother snatched up your hand and began dragging you off towards the stairs. “Let’s play Astronauts.” There was somebody at the door. Somebody different, almost skeletal and yet reminding you of a cat in the same breath. You whirled around, letting go of your brother’s hand, to look back at the door. Mother stood there. Dad stood there. Dad’s gaze lifted from Mother, sweeping over you with a slow little tilt of his head and lift of his eyebrow—but nobody stood beside them. Nobody and nothing strange. Your brother rested a hand on you again, and the strange person flashed in and out of your eyes, right there beside Dad. “Do you want to play something else?” Your brother asked. You stared at the person beside Dad—but there wasn’t a person there at all—and felt another terrible elephant of a headache trampeding through your head as you tried to identify if they were a skeleton or a vampire. Dad smiled, his eyes crinkling with little stars and moons. 

It was better not to ask. 

“Kitties!” You summoned, and all three normal cats rose to attention, falling into a perfect line behind you and your leading brother. “I wanna be a Cowboy.” You answered, letting him pull you upstairs. 

“Cowboys don’t go to outer space!” 

“Yeah they do. They did in Cowboy Beep Bob.” 

“That’s Cowboy Bebop.” 

“So I wanna be a Cowboy in Space.” 

“Okay, you be a Cowboy and I’ll be an Astronaut.” 

When you reached the top of the stairs, you realized your hand was hurting. 

“You’re squeezing too hard.” 

“Sorry—” 

“No, it’s okay.” You said, squeezing his hand back. “It…” You tried to quantify the reasons why it was okay, tried to think in the mechanical way that Mother did. It was difficult. “It means you need me.” That sufficed. “I like being needed. If I’m needed, then I’m useful.” You smiled without your teeth, “And if I’m useful, then I’m—” 

“No!” The shout startled you. Your brother covered his mouth, checking between the railings down to the entryway and living room. A few minutes ticked by with nothing happening, nothing except for your brother’s hand squeezing your own and relaxing. He turned back to you, pulling you closer. “No, that’s not how it works.” He hugged you, encasing you in warmth and hiding you from the rest of the world. “I want you. Even if I don’t need you, I want you. That’s how it works. Family wants each other. Got it?” 

“Okay.” His clothes muffled your words. “Okay,” you repeated, nodding your head into his shoulder and feeling him hug you harder, as though you might vanish if he didn’t hold on properly. 

“Now come on. Let’s go play Astronauts and Cowboys. You can be Ed. You like being Ed, right?” 

“Yeah,” you stumbled after him, rubbing at your eyes because they were wet again—it was because he hugged you too hard, that’s all! 

The cats followed after, a herd of silent spectators. There, but as little more than an audience of shining eyes and swishing tails. They could do nothing for the world. Nothing, but watch, listen, hear, and be there. 

In the morning, you’d wake up to a packed bag and Mother whisking both you and your brother off to France. Dad would be nowhere in sight. On the way to the airport, Mother would carry you. The world, from the vantage of Mother’s arms, would look quite different than how it looked in Dad’s arms. It was a difference you would attempt to understand all the way to France, but wouldn’t be able to quite comprehend. 

It just felt different. 

~

The difference grew more and more apparent in the following years. It started with your brother throwing fits about how you were taken on daily “adventures” – mind reading your way from ‘freakish’ to ‘unique’ – progressed to your brother going to live with Dad in Japan, a strange lack of contact with him – severing if you were honest about how many times your brother figured out your new number and address in order to re-connect with you and Mother changed it all again – and culminated with Dad’s death. 

When you learned this just five months ago, right at the end of your junior year and before the start of the summer, you couldn’t quite believe the words leaving Mother’s mouth. 

“You’ll be living with your older brother from now on in Japan. While you’re there, pay your respects to your father. He passed away a month ago.” 

For one—what the hell?!!? Why hadn’t she said Dad had died sooner?! What did she even mean, you’ll be living with your brother in Japan?! You hardly knew the language anymore, with how hard Mother had worked to ensure you never practiced and your brother so accommodating that he spoke to you in whatever language you preferred! 

No matter how persistent you were, how deeply you dug into Mother’s brain, you couldn’t get a straight or satisfactory enough answer. When you got to Japan less than a month later, your brother had done his best to answer your questions— 

’How’d Dad die?’ 

’Win custody of me? When were you going to tell me about this?!’ 

’What does this Japanese word mean?’ 

Dad’s death couldn’t really be explained because he’d been a yakuza member. Your brother chalked it up to bad business, but whatever he’d written in his will had gotten his old yakuza to pull strings and cause him to win the custody case. Said case had been going on for at least two years, but he didn’t want to worry you about it especially when things had looked so hopeless for so long and so he hadn’t said anything and he’s very sorry and also that word means “fried chicken” would you like some? 

It was good you’d gotten here over the summer. It gave you the chance to acclimate and get used to the new town and familiarize yourself with Japanese words and customs all over again. 

Frequently, your heart ached for France, for your friends even though none of them knew about your oddness (an unfortunate, or perhaps necessary, precaution ensured by Mother). Your brother had offered to move there, so you could be close to friends and whatnot—but you both new that wasn’t an option. As soon as you were in the same country as Mother, she would pull strings and then you’d be back in the salt mines of mind reading. You would think, having grown up being demanded to read minds as much as you had, you were at least decently able of pushing out other people’s thoughts. 

And you were! 

For everyone except Kurosaki. 

_Fucking Kurosaki and his fucking thoughts and his fucking split personality and his fucking sword and his—_

The type of headache brought on by mind reading can best be equated to a six on a Richter scale. That leaves three points of room to think with all that chaos. Three points that really don’t do much. With Kurosaki, the headache reaches a nice firm Nine (with a capital N) on the Richter scale. 

“I’m surprised this didn’t happen sooner.” Your brother announced after your pitiful spiel. His words pulled you back into the present day and now, into the present lack of passionate and sensual mental stimulus, into the present peace and quiet. 

You’d been determined to say nothing, and since your brother couldn’t read your mind it would’ve worked too. Except he knew you, had known you since you were born, and knew when you were off and knew how to press your buttons and how to make you bawl like a fucking baby. At times like these, you really wanted to hate him but you couldn’t. You didn’t have the capacity to feel that kind of strong emotion for someone who’d been there for you. 

“Why do you say that?” 

You’d exhausted yourself of emotions. All you felt right now was the dampness of your cheeks and the aches in your bones. 

“Think about it,” he reasoned, tapping your head. You pulled away with a glower. “You’ve been complaining since school started about headaches, and you’ve been complaining about this kid’s loudness, and you’ve been having more difficulty translating your thoughts between languages. You’re exhausted.” He sighed. Running a hand through his hair, he considered the ceiling for a moment, and then you again with a critical gaze. “I should’ve just moved you the first time you mentioned something like this…” 

“No, I like it here!” You insisted and crawled into your brother’s lap. You felt like a five-year-old again, with your Big Bad Brother there to hug away the Big Scary Thoughts. He dutifully wrapped his arms around you, letting you tangle yourself up in his limbs and lean against him. Inside this warm cocoon, the world vanished. First the living room with its bland walls. Then the rest of the two-bedroom apartment. Then the rest of the building. Then the whole country. No noise or thoughts reached you here because just as your brother could not hear your thoughts, you could not read his mind—not unless he allowed it. 

“I wouldn’t send you back to France,” he murmured. Even without being able to read your thoughts, he’d hit your concerns on the nose. _This is my brother, of course he knows what I’m worried about,_ you scolded yourself. “You’d just switch schools.” 

“Would we still live together?” 

“I’d figure something out.” 

You sighed. “I should get a job to help with rent—” 

“Nope~ you focus on school.” He ordered. “That’s your job. Mine is to make sure you do yours.” 

“Haha,” you said dryly. “Very funny.” 

He tickled you and you laughed, hitting him for the offense and then tumbling into a wrestling match. He feigned a dramatic defeat and you crowed your victory from your perch on his chest. Then he tickled you again. When the battle finally ended with the both of you exhausted, you dozed on the carpet next to him. 

“So tell me about him.” 

“Huh?” You’d almost fallen asleep. What time was it even? Late? It felt late. You couldn’t be sure because the curtains in the living room were closed, and there was only one poorly functioning lamp in here that threw light onto the things closest to it. You’d wound up on the floor behind the couch, so you and your brother were not amongst the “things to light up” according to the lamp. 

“This terrible Giver of Headaches. Tell me about him.” 

You scowled. “I told you: he’s a homicidal bipolar pervert that wants to murder-suicide everyone in the world.” 

“Murder-suicide?” 

“Yeah, like that comedy.” 

He grunted. He didn’t remember. It was an American romantic comedy that you’d watched as a French assignment, so you didn’t press. [1] Nuzzling your brother’s arm, you sought sleep. 

“Yeah, but what’s he like outside of his thoughts?” 

“An asshole. He scowls all the time. He yells a lot.” 

“Hm.” He wasn’t convinced. 

Oh, damn him and his non-mind-reading attention to detail! 

“He’s kind of cute. If you squint. Hard.” 

“Uh-huh,” he hummed in a ‘ah, so now we’re getting closer’ kind of way. “And?” 

You scowled and squirmed to plank your brother. “He’s got muscles.” 

“Oh~ muscles~? Like abs~?” He asked teasingly, the sound rumbling in his chest. 

“Fuck you!” you squished his face into the carpeting. He laughed. 

“Hey, hey! If I suffocate, how will you pay the bills?” 

“I’ll start a medium service! I’ll make all the money!” 

“Uh-huh. And what about when this kind-of-cute muscles-and-abs kid finds you? Then what?” 

“Ass!” 

You wrestled with him again until you were exhausted and gave up. Your brother let you catch your breath. 

“Okay, are you ready for this?” 

“Oh gods no. What? What?” 

“Serious time.” 

“… that’s it?” 

“Come, on: serious time.” 

“Okay, okay. Serious time. What?” 

“On a scale of one to ten, how concerned should I be with reporting his mental state to the police?” 

You blinked up at your brother. That was a serious question. 

“I don’t know…” 

He waited patiently as you thought on it. 

“I think…” you hesitated. Even thinking of saying it, voicing your inner thoughts, seemed ridiculous. But this was your brother. He’d grown up with the abnormal. He wouldn’t judge you. Ever. (Or if he did, you would never hear it.) “I think he’s possessed.” 

Your brother nodded. He didn’t seem surprised. 

“Okay, no reporting. Yet.” 

He rolled off you and back onto the floor. 

“He said his dad’s a doctor, right? Then you should ask him if he’s being treated for multiple-personality disorder and if he’s not, assume that he’s got something else cramped up in his head.” He rolled onto his side now, so he could stare down at you. His eyes reflected the lamplight in a manner akin to a cat. “Maybe he’s like you?” 

“I doubt that.” You snorted. “Nobody is like me.” 

The downside of being unable to read your brother’s mind was that he could hide things very easily from you. He could hide how he’d managed to wrangle custody of you from Mother and claim that Dad’s death and old yakuza had helped the court see the light of day. Bullshit. He could hide whether or not he actually thought your cooking was any good. You were pretty sure it was crap. 

He could hide what he was thinking right now and why he wasn’t nearly as concerned about Kurosaki’s mental state-of-being as he’d been about that axe-murderer you’d helped Mother catch when you were five. He could hide it with his ability to read you without you saying anything! 

“It just sounds like you’re trying to find an excuse to not have a crush on him.” 

“Am I speaking aloud?” 

“No, and before you ask no! I’m not reading your mind. I don’t have to with the way you’re staring at me. Oh, relax would you? I’m not an axe-murderer! Geez. If I was you’d be dead, wouldn’t you?” 

You muttered things about uncertainty and how axe-murderers had great patience. Your brother rolled his eyes and finally got up to put the takeout away. 

With a sigh, you evaluated the white ceiling for faults and cracks. There were none. 

_He’s my brother._ That was true. 

_He takes good care of me._ Better than Mother ever did. 

_He knows what’s best._ That was debatable, as no one really knew ‘what was best’ in your eyes. You swallowed the thought regardless, swallowed it and let your muscles relax, let your eyes slide shut, let sleep claim you as its victim. At some point, you got the sense that you were floating— _brother is putting me in a bed._ You drew comfort from this, cocooned in the knowledge that nothing would get you so long as it had to go through your brother. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [1] If you got the “Murder-suicide” reference, yay! If not, that’s okay, I never get movie/book references either. It’s a line from Obvious Child (2014 movie).
> 
> **RAMBLINGS**
> 
> This was one of the most difficult chapters to edit, in part because (in my opinion) it’s difficult to incorporate backstory in fanfiction without interrupting the flow of the story, the fandom, and the primary interest of reading for the fandom and not original work (because let’s face it, we typically read fanfiction to read about our favorite characters and not original characters, and reader can be classified as original character).
> 
> I’d love feedback on how you guys felt reading through it, particularly on believability and transitions.
> 
> Also, also, also: if you can guess what the second arc will be, I’ll be impressed. ;) (Hint: first arc is hiding reader’s mind-reading)


	17. (M) Chapter 9: Oh How The Mighty Fall

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> male-reader perspective

Over the rim of his teacup, Urahara considered the bratty teen before him. He scowled darkly, a normal expression to find on his face, and his eyes focused some unimaginable distance beyond his green tea on seemingly a mighty foe, an abnormal feature in Ichigo’s case. The faraway look, the reiatsu so high it left Urahara’s palms sweaty and his muscles tensed in fight-or-flight mode, the general even-shorter temperament—these were all signs that Urahara had learned to recognize as The Hollow. 

If he pressed, he knew Ichigo would avoid the topic. He’d say he was fine (as he already had a thousand times). He’d say it was none of his goddamn business (as he already had a hundred times). He’d say he was taking care of it (as he was about to in three… two…). 

“I’m training with the Vizard again.” 

Urahara hummed in an intentionally thoughtless and singsong-like manner. “And I suppose it’s not working this time~” 

Ichigo scowled more. If it were any other person, their face would be permanently etched in that expression with wrinkle lines and everything. Urahara wondered if perhaps Ichigo’s face actually had been etched with scowling wrinkle lines and he merely scowled so often that nobody could notice—but he did smile on occasion. Urahara had seen him do it with his family and his living friends. 

“Fucking damn Hollow won’t SHUT UP!” The teacup shattered in Ichigo’s hands—not from the pressure of him holding it but from the sudden severe spike in his reiatsu. Urahara just barely protected his own teacup with an additional layer of reiatsu. _Barely._

Ichigo scowled down at the teacup remains in his hands and the green liquid dripping onto the table. He shook his hands hard, the debris falling off and then incinerating completely in Ichigo’s remaining spiritual aura. 

Urahara eyed his other chinaware. At this pace, Ichigo would destroy all his lovely dishes! 

“Yes well,” Urahara sipped at his tea, the movement an attempt to calm his nerves— _there is only so much of that damn boy’s reiatsu to be taken in a single sitting_ —and sighed dramatically, “I suppose I could try to invent something to help with that~ Of course it will cost money, and take time~” 

Ichigo scowled at Urahara’s charming smile. Really, how could Ichigo not melt under its charm? Urahara had perfected it such that everyone melted under it. This brat really dug under his skin sometimes. _All the time._

“What do you want old man? I’m not sitting here drinking tea with a pervert when I could be working on my school project.” 

“That must be hard when you’re scaring your partner away~? Hm~?” 

“Bastard!” 

“I’m just saying, maybe consider your priorities for a moment. Project partner? Or everyone else’s life? I mean, if that Hollow takes over,” and Urahara tilted his head expertly so that his hat shadowed his eyes and only the reflection of the florescent light in them, making them glint in what he knew to be an eerie way, could be seen. “Then we’ll have to kill you.” 

“That’s not gonna happen!” 

“Of course~” 

That sat in companionable silence for another three minutes. Ichigo fidgeted merrily while Urahara inhaled the sweet, soothing scent of green tea. Well, it was companionable in Urahara’s mind. As companionable as one could get with a stubborn brat like Ichigo. 

Urahara’s words broke the tranquility. 

“I informed Rukia.” 

“What?! Why the hell would you do that?!” 

Urahara didn’t even bother looking at Ichigo. _Such a stupid question, really. We’ve done this before._ “To keep an eye out for signs of transformation in civilian locations—” 

“I already said that’s not gonna happen damn bastard! Ugh!” Ichigo shoved himself up from the table. “I’m leaving. Fucking useless ass—what?!” Ichigo snapped, his progress halted by Urahara’s hand on his forearm. 

Urahara swirled the tea in his cup and tried not to feel the way the air crackled hotly with Ichigo’s unforgiving reiatsu. 

“Be careful around that project partner of yours.” 

“What’s that mean? Huh!?” 

“Exactly that. Your reiatsu may be affecting him. We don’t need any more of the living knowing about Soul Society than we already have.” 

Urahara could feel Ichigo’s scowl, even though the intensity of his reiatsu lessened. _So he’s listening at least._

“Yeah, whatever.” 

Ichigo stormed out. 

Urahara remained there, the hand not holding the teacup shaking ever so slightly. He wrapped it around the steaming beverage and inhaled again. After a beat, a familiar cat crawled out from under the table. 

Yoruichi swished her tail in time to the ticking of the second hand on a clock. Her black fur stood on end along her shoulders and the base of her tail, and her whiskers twitched minutely. Urahara reached a hand down to pat the fur smooth, the strokes serving to settle his own nerves. The fur stuck unpleasantly to his sweaty palms. 

“I know what you’re going to ask.” Yoruichi meowed in a voice disturbingly deep. In that moment, Urahara almost ached for her melodious feminine voice. “I’ve already been watching him. He lives in the Sakurabashi district… He’s… different. There are a lot of cats in that area. They all speak fondly of him, even though he doesn’t really feed them or anything.” Yoruichi appeared offended by this last assessment, as though going without treats was a grand crime. 

Urahara smiled. 

“Well then, please keep watching him. I’ll pay with treats~” He tickled her behind her ears and Yoruichi hiss-purred, appearing uncertain on what mood to adopt. In the end, she settled on purring. 

“Milk. Now.” Yoruichi demanded. 

Urahara complied with a laugh, pulling a saucer out from his sleeve and setting it down. 

The two said nothing more. They simply sat in silence, a much more agreeably calm silence compared to the one with Ichigo, until Yoruichi finished her milk. She cleaned her whiskers, paws, and then promptly left without a sound. 

~

The next morning found you back at school. 

_This is fine_ , you assured yourself. No one was acting oddly or anything, and by this you meant that the Kurosaki posse behaved as they normally do and so you figured— _prayed, hoped to all fucking deities if there even was one_ —that Kurosaki had forgotten your blunder the other day and attributed it to his own clumsy mouth. Sometimes you could get away with that: convincing people they had said aloud whatever they had been thinking. You’d only ever used this tactic immediately though, and pretending a day later that this is what happened… well, you weren’t sure it would fly. 

_Gods, how can I be so stupidstupidstupid sometimes?_

Your brother was looking into other schools. He hadn’t said it this morning, but you just knew it. He’d offered to call you in sick but you’d declined. 

Why had you declined? 

_Oh right, because I’m a fucking idiotidiotidiot._ Also you had a test today and seeing Kurosaki’s face, however scowling, and hearing his thoughts, however murderous, made the butterflies in your stomach go crazy— _No they don’t I don’t know what you’re talking about brain I’m really not into homicidal possessed personality disordered hot orange-headed tall scowling lean muscular fuckfuckfuck._

You smacked your head against your desk and listened attentively to how everyone else worried if you were okay or having a bad day or why did you always do that were you some kind of masochist? For once, you did not want to be in your own head. You did not want to be in Kurosaki’s head. You did not want to be in this classroom—even though you really honestly did and where was that orange-headed maniac today anyways?—you just wanted to not be you for a moment. 

So you surfed thoughts as one might surf the internet. 

_Party is this weekend—_

_Orihimi is so hot—_

_I really wish we’d gone to that cat café—_

_—wonder what we’re doing in craft club today?_

_And tomorrow, Rubber Ducky will give his first bath therapy session!_

_FRIDAY, FRIDAY, FRIDAY~!_

_… our topic is already picked, so we can divide the work in half for the weekend and turn it in Monday. Then I can proceed with broadening Heilig Bogen—_

With the force of stampeding elephants, brain jolted awake. You needed to have a topic for the project picked out and ready for approval by Monday! Sure, that just meant a page overview of what the topic would potentially involve and a second page of the initial steps to cover it but you guys hadn’t even been able to go fifteen minutes without… without…! _ugh!_

Your head smacked the desk again to clear if of unnecessarily stimulating visual. The wood felt hot and damp at this point, a combination due to your own body heating up. All over, you felt your muscles clamping, relaxing, and tensing back up. You were pretty certain, by the state of soreness you experienced, that your back was bruised. 

Kurosaki stepped into the room. If you didn’t know better, you’d say your thoughts summoned him. 

Two of his friends – Keigo and Rukia – immediately flocked towards him, but he only brushed them aside with a mildly irritated scowl. _Great, I’m beginning to tell his scowls apart._ From the little cavern created by your arms over your head, you peered out and watched. 

Watched the way Kurosaki stalked towards you. For a moment, you forgot to breath and you realized this only when your lungs started burning. This must be how gazelle felt in the hunt. 

Watched the way his brown eyes darkened. It felt like your heart would just beat a path out of your chest and the warmth of your arms over your head and the heated wood against your check almost felt like too much. 

Watched the way the muscles in his necked strained as he scowled. Too much heat, too little air, too little space to breathe or move and thank fuck you were sitting down because your knees felt like jelly. 

Watched, as he claimed Keigo’s vacated seat next to you and waited for you to emerge from your happy little cave. 

The look he gave you said you had two, maybe five, minutes before he did something— _killed you_ , brain supplied. But then his eyes narrowed peculiarly, narrowed bit by bit and the gears in his head picked up speed, slowly, like a decommissioned clock tower being ordered into overdrive until it rolled so quickly time bent to its will and fast-forwarded and you caught the whiffs of what probably kept him in the top scores— _shit. I need to stop that train._

“We need to pick a topic,” you said and almost winced at the dry, scratchy quality of your voice. Kurosaki didn’t seem to notice. He only nodded. You kept your arms over your head and your head down against the desk. 

“Yeah…” He didn’t mention how you’d ditched him at Urahara’s Shop, or how you’d said his personalities’ names aloud… That clock tower kept rolling, the train of thought undisturbed. It included words and terminology you were definitely unfamiliar with but that you were pretty certain were code-words for _death_ and _afterlife_ and _dying_. “Let’s go to your place to work on it after school,” he added. 

_Hell no._ If he was going to kill you, he could do it in his clinic/hospital/home where his father would hopefully be sane and patch you up, or better yet, stop him. He was not going to do it at your place, where your brother was and would probably interfere and die to, and leave the bloody mess for your neighbors to find. 

“Can we work on it at your place instead? My brother’s hosting a party.” You lied easily enough. 

Kurosaki nodded again, his darkened eyes staring at you in that peculiar manner and his expression unusually less scowl-y than normal. But he agreed and then he left you alone. 

You watched him go to his seat. Watched, from your safe cavern, how Rukia squinted at you with her own special Kurosaki-mimicking frown-scowl. Watched while the world went on, went on as though you wouldn’t be dead soon. 

Watched, and all you could think was how dark Kurosaki’s gaze had gotten, how _hungry_ it had seemed instead of angry, how the desk now felt cold compared to the heat searing your flesh, and how the butterflies in your stomach threatened spontaneous combustion. 

Life really needed to give you a break. At this rate, your body wouldn’t survive to the end of the year, much less through the weekend.


	18. (F) Chapter 9: Oh How The Mighty Fall

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> female-reader perspective

Over the rim of his teacup, Urahara considered the bratty teen before him. He scowled darkly, a normal expression to find on his face, and his eyes focused some unimaginable distance beyond his green tea on seemingly a mighty foe, an abnormal feature in Ichigo’s case. The faraway look, the reiatsu so high it left Urahara’s palms sweaty and his muscles tensed in fight-or-flight mode, the general even-shorter temperament—these were all signs that Urahara had learned to recognize as The Hollow. 

If he pressed, he knew Ichigo would avoid the topic. He’d say he was fine (as he already had a thousand times). He’d say it was none of his goddamn business (as he already had a hundred times). He’d say he was taking care of it (as he was about to in three… two…). 

“I’m training with the Vizard again.” 

Urahara hummed in an intentionally thoughtless and singsong-like manner. “And I suppose it’s not working this time~” 

Ichigo scowled more. If it were any other person, their face would be permanently etched in that expression with wrinkle lines and everything. Urahara wondered if perhaps Ichigo’s face actually had been etched with scowling wrinkle lines and he merely scowled so often that nobody could notice—but he did smile on occasion. Urahara had seen him do it with his family and his living friends. 

“Fucking damn Hollow won’t SHUT UP!” The teacup shattered in Ichigo’s hands—not from the pressure of him holding it but from the sudden severe spike in his reiatsu. Urahara just barely protected his own teacup with an additional layer of reiatsu. _Barely._

Ichigo scowled down at the teacup remains in his hands and the green liquid dripping onto the table. He shook his hands hard, the debris falling off and then incinerating completely in Ichigo’s remaining spiritual aura. 

Urahara eyed his other chinaware. At this pace, Ichigo would destroy all his lovely dishes! 

“Yes well,” Urahara sipped at his tea, the movement an attempt to calm his nerves— _there is only so much of that damn boy’s reiatsu to be taken in a single sitting_ —and sighed dramatically, “I suppose I could try to invent something to help with that~ Of course it will cost money, and take time~” 

Ichigo scowled at Urahara’s charming smile. Really, how could Ichigo not melt under its charm? Urahara had perfected it such that everyone melted under it. This brat really dug under his skin sometimes. _All the time._

“What do you want old man? I’m not sitting here drinking tea with a pervert when I could be working on my school project.” 

“That must be hard when you’re scaring your partner away~? Hm~?” 

“Bastard!” 

“I’m just saying, maybe consider your priorities for a moment. Project partner? Or everyone else’s life? I mean, if that Hollow takes over,” and Urahara tilted his head expertly so that his hat shadowed his eyes and only the reflection of the florescent light in them, making them glint in what he knew to be an eerie way, could be seen. “Then we’ll have to kill you.” 

“That’s not gonna happen!” 

“Of course~” 

That sat in companionable silence for another three minutes. Ichigo fidgeted merrily while Urahara inhaled the sweet, soothing scent of green tea. Well, it was companionable in Urahara’s mind. As companionable as one could get with a stubborn brat like Ichigo. 

Urahara’s words broke the tranquility. 

“I informed Rukia.” 

“What?! Why the hell would you do that?!” 

Urahara didn’t even bother looking at Ichigo. _Such a stupid question, really. We’ve done this before._ “To keep an eye out for signs of transformation in civilian locations—” 

“I already said that’s not gonna happen damn bastard! Ugh!” Ichigo shoved himself up from the table. “I’m leaving. Fucking useless ass—what?!” Ichigo snapped, his progress halted by Urahara’s hand on his forearm. 

Urahara swirled the tea in his cup and tried not to feel the way the air crackled hotly with Ichigo’s unforgiving reiatsu. 

“Be careful around that project partner of yours.” 

“What’s that mean? Huh!?” 

“Exactly that. Your reiatsu may be affecting her. We don’t need any more of the living knowing about Soul Society than we already have.” 

Urahara could feel Ichigo’s scowl, even though the intensity of his reiatsu lessened. _So he’s listening at least._

“Yeah, whatever.” 

Ichigo stormed out. 

Urahara remained there, the hand not holding the teacup shaking ever so slightly. He wrapped it around the steaming beverage and inhaled again. After a beat, a familiar cat crawled out from under the table. 

Yoruichi swished her tail in time to the ticking of the second hand on a clock. Her black fur stood on end along her shoulders and the base of her tail, and her whiskers twitched minutely. Urahara reached a hand down to pat the fur smooth, the strokes serving to settle his own nerves. The fur stuck unpleasantly to his sweaty palms. 

“I know what you’re going to ask.” Yoruichi meowed in a voice disturbingly deep. In that moment, Urahara almost ached for her melodious feminine voice. “I’ve already been watching her. She lives in the Sakurabashi district… She’s… different. There are a lot of cats in that area. They all speak fondly of her, even though she doesn’t really feed them or anything.” Yoruichi appeared offended by this last assessment, as though going without treats was a grand crime. 

Urahara smiled. 

“Well then, please keep watching her. I’ll pay with treats~” He tickled her behind her ears and Yoruichi hiss-purred, appearing uncertain on what mood to adopt. In the end, she settled on purring. 

“Milk. Now.” Yoruichi demanded. 

Urahara complied with a laugh, pulling a saucer out from his sleeve and setting it down. 

The two said nothing more. They simply sat in silence, a much more agreeably calm silence compared to the one with Ichigo, until Yoruichi finished her milk. She cleaned her whiskers, paws, and then promptly left without a sound. 

~

The next morning found you back at school. 

_This is fine_ , you assured yourself. No one was acting oddly or anything, and by this you meant that the Kurosaki posse behaved as they normally do and so you figured— _prayed, hoped to all fucking deities if there even was one_ —that Kurosaki had forgotten your blunder the other day and attributed it to his own clumsy mouth. Sometimes you could get away with that: convincing people they had said aloud whatever they had been thinking. You’d only ever used this tactic immediately though, and pretending a day later that this is what happened… well, you weren’t sure it would fly. 

_Gods, how can I be so stupidstupidstupid sometimes?_

Your brother was looking into other schools. He hadn’t said it this morning, but you just knew it. He’d offered to call you in sick but you’d declined. 

Why had you declined? 

_Oh right, because I’m a fucking idiotidiotidiot._ Also you had a test today and seeing Kurosaki’s face, however scowling, and hearing his thoughts, however murderous, made the butterflies in your stomach go crazy— _No they don’t I don’t know what you’re talking about brain I’m really not into homicidal possessed personality disordered hot orange-headed tall scowling lean muscular fuckfuckfuck._

You smacked your head against your desk and listened attentively to how everyone else worried if you were okay or insane or why did you always do that were you some kind of attention whore? For once, you did not want to be in your own head. You did not want to be in Kurosaki’s head. You did not want to be in this classroom—even though you really honestly did and where was that orange-headed maniac today anyways?—you just wanted to not be you for a moment. 

So you surfed thoughts as one might surf the internet. 

_Party is this weekend—_

_Orihimi is so hot—_

_I really wish we’d gone to that cat café—_

_—wonder what we’re doing in craft club today?_

_And tomorrow, Rubber Ducky will give his first bath therapy session!_

_FRIDAY, FRIDAY, FRIDAY~!_

_… our topic is already picked, so we can divide the work in half for the weekend and turn it in Monday. Then I can proceed with broadening Heilig Bogen—_

With the force of stampeding elephants, brain jolted awake. You needed to have a topic for the project picked out and ready for approval by Monday! Sure, that just meant a page overview of what the topic would potentially involve and a second page of the initial steps to cover it but you guys hadn’t even been able to go fifteen minutes without… without…! _ugh!_

Your head smacked the desk again to clear if of unnecessarily stimulating visual. The wood felt hot and damp at this point, a combination due to your own body heating up. All over, you felt your muscles clamping, relaxing, and tensing back up. You were pretty certain, by the state of soreness you experienced, that your back was bruised. 

Kurosaki stepped into the room. If you didn’t know better, you’d say your thoughts summoned him. 

Two of his friends – Keigo and Rukia – immediately flocked towards him, but he only brushed them aside with a mildly irritated scowl. _Great, I’m beginning to tell his scowls apart._ From the little cavern created by your arms over your head, you peered out and watched. 

Watched the way Kurosaki stalked towards you. For a moment, you forgot to breath and you realized this only when your lungs started burning. This must be how gazelle felt in the hunt. 

Watched the way his brown eyes darkened. It felt like your heart would just beat a path out of your chest and the warmth of your arms over your head and the heated wood against your check almost felt like too much. 

Watched the way the muscles in his necked strained as he scowled. Too much heat, too little air, too little space to breathe or move and thank fuck you were sitting down because your knees felt like jelly. 

Watched, as he claimed Keigo’s vacated seat next to you and waited for you to emerge from your happy little cave. 

The look he gave you said you had two, maybe five, minutes before he did something— _killed you_ , brain supplied. But then his eyes narrowed peculiarly, narrowed bit by bit and the gears in his head picked up speed, slowly, like a decommissioned clock tower being ordered into overdrive until it rolled so quickly time bent to its will and fast-forwarded and you caught the whiffs of what probably kept him in the top scores— _shit. I need to stop that train._

“We need to pick a topic,” you said and almost winced at the dry, scratchy quality of your voice. Kurosaki didn’t seem to notice. He only nodded. You kept your arms over your head and your head down against the desk. 

“Yeah…” He didn’t mention how you’d ditched him at Urahara’s Shop, or how you’d said his personalities’ names aloud… That clock tower kept rolling, the train of thought undisturbed. It included words and terminology you were definitely unfamiliar with but that you were pretty certain were code-words for _death_ and _afterlife_ and _dying_. “Let’s go to your place to work on it after school,” he added. 

_Hell no._ If he was going to kill you, he could do it in his clinic/hospital/home where his father would hopefully be sane and patch you up, or better yet, stop him. He was not going to do it at your place, where your brother was and would probably interfere and die to, and leave the bloody mess for your neighbors to find. 

“Can we work on it at your place instead? My brother’s hosting a party.” You lied easily enough. 

Kurosaki nodded again, his darkened eyes staring at you in that peculiar manner and his expression unusually less scowl-y than normal. But he agreed and then he left you alone. 

You watched him go to his seat. Watched, from your safe cavern, how Rukia squinted at you with her own special Kurosaki-mimicking frown-scowl. Watched while the world went on, went on as though you wouldn’t be dead soon. 

Watched, and all you could think was how dark Kurosaki’s gaze had gotten, how _hungry_ it had seemed instead of angry, how the desk now felt cold compared to the heat searing your flesh, and how the butterflies in your stomach threatened spontaneous combustion. 

Life really needed to give you a break. At this rate, your body wouldn’t survive to the end of the year, much less through the weekend.


	19. (M) Chapter 10: Don't Have To Worry About Nothing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> male-reader perspective

Kurosaki was waiting for you in the courtyard. For a fleeting moment, when the bell rang signaling the end of the day, the heat and thoughts and lack of oxygen had gotten to your head and you’d considered ditching Kurosaki all over again. But then your heart acted like it’d been stabbed or something and you’d said you needed to use the bathroom and you’d banished the thought of ditching to the recesses of Forgotten Land. Heart patched itself back up with such speedy precision, it left you even more lightheaded than you were before. 

In the bathroom, you watched the water stream out of the faucet. It circled the drain and ran away into a future hopefully near the sea. At least as a singularity, the water didn’t have to worry about abnormal thoughts. It knew intimately what other water pondered because they were all connected. They were one and the same. Some water had food coloring in it, sure, but they still shared the same fundamental structure. They accepted water-related things and rejected non-water-related things. Life was straightforward: there were no rights or wrongs because it was water. Life just flowed. 

Families were not like that at all. If they were, then you could’ve asked Mother what to do when you’re interested in a homicidal maniac and your brother doesn’t seem particularly concerned about that dangerous nature and you’re a bit worried that your brother might be inclined towards murderous acts too… not that he was. He couldn’t be, he was your brother. If anyone in your family was close to being homicidal, it was most likely Mother. She had the clocklike mind and habit of critically analyzing all social interactions, but you only knew this because you could read her mind. You couldn’t read your brother’s mind, not unless he let you. Maybe you should ask him to let you tromp through his head? But asking would give him advance notice and he’d probably hide things behind locked doors and secured vaults… 

The water kept running circles around the drain. It trickled slowly down the pipes, despite the steady onslaught pushing it forward. The water refused to be rushed. It took its leisurely time. You let your thoughts wash down the drain with it. The thoughts took your headache and lightheadedness along, leaving just you, the butterflies, and the drumming heart. 

You turned the water off. Thinking hadn’t done you much good since you got here. All it did was increase your blood pressure, make breathing difficult, and make thought processes more painful. Maybe it would be better to stop thinking for once. 

The concept horrified you. You could feel it take a vice-grip around your throat; if you didn’t think, if you didn’t hear what other people thought, then what were you? Who were you? What was left? How did you act? _Okay, okay, okay. Breath. We’ll think about breathing. Breathing all the way._ The vice loosened up enough that you weren’t choking anymore. You kept concentrating on breathing. It reminded you of the stupid meditation lessons Mother had you take when you were nine—you thought of breathing again. You would try this for today. Just today. Just breathing. Not about the way your heart tried to run away when Kurosaki got near you or shot you that peculiar look or thought about various explicit things, not the way your head hurt when the Kurosakis bashed through windows and doors and skyscrapers, not the way the silence left behind by the lack of Kurosaki’s mental presence stung more than the way his thoughts pounded at your skull. Nope, none of that. Just breathing. 

Based on his typical scowl, Kurosaki didn’t seem annoyed or bothered by how long it took you to get outside. He just led the way to his house. You assumed, by the lack of the rest of the Kurosaki posse’s presence, that his friends had gone off their own ways already. 

You walked in silence until you neared the Kasazaki district. 

“So how far is your house?” 

“My Dad’s clinic is in the Minamikawase district, near the Karasu river, so not that much more.” Kurosaki thought about his father and sisters. You focused on breathing, letting his musings flow from one ear to the next. “I should warn you, he’s kind of weird. He… likes to attack me.” 

“What?” _Is his bloodthirsty nature hereditary?! Shit!_ You hadn’t considered that. If it was, that would explain why he wasn’t getting treated for it! _Shit! Shit! Shit—breathing! Breathing, just think of breathing._ Your heart and lungs competed for who would get to the emergency exit first: they would survive, even if you wouldn’t! _I can’t fucking think of breathing when I’m about to actually die—_

“Yeah, but he only does it to me. Just walk in after and you’ll be fine. He says he does it to keep me on my toes, but really it’s just a pain.” Kurosaki scowled in the way a teenager gripping about their parents does and not in the way a homicidal person about to murder you does. He reflected on how annoying his dad acted, not on killing you—actually about ensuring you didn’t get hurt in the event his dad’s attack went wide—the butterflies in your stomach grew excited and tried to fly out with your heart. You scolded them both with the reminder that you kind of needed your heart to stay alive. The butterflies were too excited to be brought down by logic. They resolved to fly out with everything! “Anyways, you said you had a brother. Do you live with him instead of your parents?” 

Your heart still pounded uncomfortably fast, and Kurosaki’s thoughts meandered in at least five different directions—skyscrapers and stabbing his father with a sword and people with holes in their chest and basically anything and everything having to do with burying a body alive in order to avoid that strain in the back of his head about being alone in a room with you, close enough to touch, to taste— _He asked a question,_ you reminded yourself and let the hammering thoughts flow through your head. It was almost like a really powerful river, you were beginning to realize. If you tried to build a dam to block it out, it pounded away harder at the walls until it broke through. If you just let it flow by, it didn’t hurt as much. It merely distracted you by roaring obnoxiously loudly. 

“Why would you think that?” you asked, and then remembered what types of thoughts inhabited his head and the general behavioral patterns of people who were like that. “Are you stalking me?!” 

“What?! No! I mean—Orihime did that. Lived with her brother. So, it makes sense to me…” Kurosaki huffed and shifted his messenger bag around. “We turn here.” He pointed at the upcoming crosswalk, his pace picking up. 

_—stupid stupid stupid why you gotta be so stupid? Just talk about something else._

_… ya could not talk at all…_

_Fuck off!_

Albino Kurosaki didn’t so much sigh as shrug. The movement, so… sullen compared to all the other warring that went on in Kurosaki’s head, you actually wanted to follow the thought for once—but the river of distraction swelled with a multitude of overwhelming sensations. You told yourself not to build a barrier, just let it go, just breathe, just keep talking and maybe the discussion would distract Kurosaki enough that all his personalities would fall silent. 

“Yeah, I live with him. Mother thought it would be good for me to return to Japan and stay with him for a year,” you lied. This was one lie you’d considered long and hard before even enrolling in Karakura High School. “Do you have any siblings?” 

“Two sisters. Both younger. They’re annoying.” He stared across the street at three cats perched on a cement wall: an orange tabby, a black and white tom, and a purely black cat. Their tails hung over the edges of the wall, twitching and swaying to an unheard tempo, and their gazes tracked your passage closely. Kurosaki scowled. 

“I think they’re following me,” you joked to an undesirably negative reaction. Kurosaki jerked his head around so hard, you were pretty sure he’d suffer whiplash for it later. His entire upper body tensed. Even his knuckles turned white as he gripped his bag. 

“Are you serious?” 

“I’m joking! Geez, they’re just cats. They’re not gonna… hurt you.” You chose your words carefully, the river swelling up to your toes with swirls of blood mixed in. Your insides threatened to tumble out at the sight. 

“Oh…” The tension left his body and the river ebbed back down, the blood drifting away. It was so hard not to just build a dam, and then ten more, to block it right then and there. Kurosaki rubbed his neck, visibly forcing an awkward laugh. “You must be the Pied Piper!” 

_Heh. Pied Piper of th’ King_

_Shut it. Shut it. Shut it. Shut it!_

_Ya should try smiling more. Unless ya like making him afraid,_ Albino Kurosaki snapped, his teeth flashing in a mockery of a grin. 

In the span of a split second—if you blinked, you would’ve missed it—you saw Kurosaki frown, smile hard, scowl, and then smile less like he was attempting to have an aneurism and more… thoughts accompanied the smile, thoughts of a light brown haired woman in an apron with an angelic halo and a warm grin. Her hugs drove off monsters. Her words healed wounds. Her food improved moods. To you, she was the epitome of a Disney Mother. The realization hurt your chest. 

But damn, that _smile_. 

You really wanted to take a picture of it, and just looking at it made the stupid butterflies— _ugh. Why’s he gotta be insane?!_ You turned away quickly and walked faster down the street. 

“Wrong way!” 

Looking back, you caught Kurosaki smirking at you – _the bastard!_ – in such a way that it knotted up the butteries all over again. And the cats on the wall, they looked like they were smirking too! 

“Come on, this way.” Kurosaki took pity on you and grabbed your wrist. He proceeded to pull you down another street. The heat of his hand traveled up your arm and through the rest of you, warming everything from your skin to your bones to the river of distraction trickling through your head. In that river, you noted the laughter, the grins of the Kurosaki posse, Yuzu’s cooking, and what you looked like embarrassed. You ducked your head down, really wishing the ground would animate and eat you right now. But that embarrassed expression wasn’t surrounded by cruel laughter or mockery, it was surrounded by that too-warm river. 

_I have a serious problem._ You decided. _A very serious problem that needs to be addressed._ Kurosaki kept his hand around your wrist, leading you even though you could now see the Kurosaki Clinic sign up ahead. _But later. Much later._

~

You regretted entering the clinic immediately, if only for Kurosaki’s father’s livelihood. 

“I’m home—” Kurosaki called. He made sure to walk through the door first and made you stand a good three feet behind him. ‘Just in case. I’m serious. Don’t move from that spot!’ he’d whispered. You followed his instructions to the letter, although by now you were beginning to think – hope, pray for totally not selfish reasons – that Kurosaki’s malevolent ideas were all confined to his head. 

Your hopes died swiftly. 

“HYA!” A foot flew out of nowhere to kick Kurosaki’s face! 

You immediately took a step back, running into the shut door, and pulled your bag up as a shield between you and the fighting duo. They moved so quickly—one moment, Kurosaki’s father tried kicking him in the face and the next Kurosaki threw him into another hallway by grabbing that same foot! 

“You’ve gotten better at keeping your guard up son! I’m so proud!” Kurosaki’s father yelled so loudly, you were certain the neighboring districts heard him. Your ears rang. “But you must be faster for counterattacks!” He flew at him again with another kick. You inched away from the door and tried getting your body to mold into the nearby wall—the wall kindly refused your offer, but would consider you if future wall openings became available—as Kurosaki ducked the kick, punched his father in the gut, and then tossed him across the room again. His father dragged him along and soon they became a tumbleweed of flailing limbs and karate sounds. 

“You bastard! Is this any way to greet your son in front of guests?!” 

“Guests?” Just like that, Kurosaki’s father stopped attacking him. You could see them both clearly once more, Kurosaki holding his father up by the collar and thinking of how best he could strangle him to death, and his father peering over Kurosaki’s shoulder at you with a gleeful expression. 

At this point, you expected Kurosaki’s father to think just like Kurosaki. 

Fortunately, you were mistaken. 

_How wonderful, Ichigo has made another friend! His mother would be so proud of him, making friends and protecting them~! Oh, he should stay for dinner! He may get Ichigo to open up more, the stubborn clam!_ The loop of joy and happiness and pride and fluff built and built and _built_ into a tower of loving thoughts that threatened to smoother you with fatherly adoration. This, like Kurosaki’s earlier memories of his mother, stabbed at your chest. You tried not to focus on how much it ached, and instead let his father’s thoughts wash over you, let them wash away the parts of you that had glued yourself to the wall and begun considering call the police. 

“Ignore them.” A girl spoke at your elbow, startling the crap out of you. She stood shorter than Ichigo, with equally short black hair pulled back into a ponytail and a bored, almost sour, expression fixed to her face. “They’re always like this.” She brushed past you into the living room, quick enough that you barely caught the redness dusting her face or the, _He’s cute. Stupid Ichigo bringing cute guys home. Ugh!_

Another girl her height that resembled her, but had light brown hair pulled into low pigtails and a sweet smile, drifted after her. The girl paused, bowed politely to you and said, “Welcome to the Kurosaki household. My name is Yuzu, that was my sister Karin, and that’s my papa Isshin.” 

This girl, like Isshin, endlessly reflected on happy, non-violent, matters. 

_I should make an extra special dinner since we have a guest! Oh, I hope Papa didn’t bother Big Brother too much._

You quickly stopped listening in. It was easy. The thoughts were so happy, so fluffy, like cotton candy and rainbows and cute kittens—they were as addicting as cigarettes and infectious and if you let yourself you would just drift in that rainbow stream of joy forever—but they were private. They were these people’s thoughts and you could actually block them out with little effort, unlike Kurosaki’s rampages. Their happiness reminded you of every reason why hearing people’s personal thoughts was wrong. Why you were wrong. You latched onto Kurosaki’s thoughts, the river of overwhelming heady sensations that drowned out even your own mind, and smiled at Yuzu, introducing yourself just as politely. 

Kurosaki squished his father with a foot. “We’re going upstairs to study. Don’t bother us old man.” 

“Will you stay for dinner?” Yuzu asked. 

“Why do you always have to ask that? Maybe he wants to go home and eat with his normal family.” Karin griped from another room – you figured the kitchen, by the sound of a fridge opening. _Don’t you want him to stay over? No you don’t, he’s cute. Stupid!_

“Karin! Don’t ruin your appetite! I’m making something special tonight!” Yuzu dashed out of the room and into the other. 

“Come on,” Kurosaki grabbed your wrist again, the heat warming completely inappropriate and unrelated parts of your body again. “Let’s go before they recover.” 

Isshin suddenly blocked the hallway. “Wait!” Kurosaki’s grip tightened on your wrist. His father wisely did not move from his road block position, “Please say you’ll stay for dinner?” Sparkles circled his head as he puppy-eyed you, and you seriously wondered _how the hell_ he managed that. 

_We’ll play football and he’ll tell me how wonderfully my son has grown and Masaki will be so proud to hear the good news~_

_… and I’ll make desert tonight as well. This is a perfect chance to try that chocolate glazed crème-brule recipe!_

_Wait, Yuzu’s grabbing the baking ingredients. That means if he stays she’ll make a delicious desert! This is a perfect excuse – plus desert!_

“Hey, you should totally stay!” Karin shouted, “But only if you want good food!” 

_My family is so dead. All of them. Dead._

_Heh._

“Yes!” you agreed, wanting nothing more than to ensure that Kurosaki didn’t kill off his wonderful relatives (and definitely not anything to do with his wandering thoughts about alone time). 

“Okay, he agreed. Now get out of the way.” Kurosaki shoved his father aside and dragged you off. 

What had you gotten yourself into?


	20. (F) Chapter 10: Don't Have To Worry About Nothing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> female-reader perspective

Kurosaki was waiting for you in the courtyard. For a fleeting moment, when the bell rang signaling the end of the day, the heat and thoughts and lack of oxygen had gotten to your head and you’d considered ditching Kurosaki all over again. But then your heart acted like it’d been stabbed or something and you’d said you needed to use the bathroom and you’d banished the thought of ditching to the recesses of Forgotten Land. Heart patched itself back up with such speedy precision, it left you even more lightheaded than you were before. 

In the bathroom, you watched the water stream out of the faucet. It circled the drain and ran away into a future hopefully near the sea. At least as a singularity, the water didn’t have to worry about abnormal thoughts. It knew intimately what other water pondered because they were all connected. They were one and the same. Some water had food coloring in it, sure, but they still shared the same fundamental structure. They accepted water-related things and rejected non-water-related things. Life was straightforward: there were no rights or wrongs because it was water. Life just flowed. 

Families were not like that at all. If they were, then you could’ve asked Mother what to do when you’re interested in a homicidal maniac and your brother doesn’t seem particularly concerned about that dangerous nature and you’re a bit worried that your brother might be inclined towards murderous acts too… not that he was. He couldn’t be, he was your brother. If anyone in your family was close to being homicidal, it was most likely Mother. She had the clocklike mind and habit of critically analyzing all social interactions, but you only knew this because you could read her mind. You couldn’t read your brother’s mind, not unless he let you. Maybe you should ask him to let you tromp through his head? But asking would give him advance notice and he’d probably hide things behind locked doors and secured vaults… 

The water kept running circles around the drain. It trickled slowly down the pipes, despite the steady onslaught pushing it forward. The water refused to be rushed. It took its leisurely time. You let your thoughts wash down the drain with it. The thoughts took your headache and lightheadedness along, leaving just you, the butterflies, and the drumming heart. 

You turned the water off. Thinking hadn’t done you much good since you got here. All it did was increase your blood pressure, make breathing difficult, and make thought processes more painful. Maybe it would be better to stop thinking for once. 

The concept horrified you. You could feel it take a vice-grip around your throat; if you didn’t think, if you didn’t hear what other people thought, then what were you? Who were you? What was left? How did you act? _Okay, okay, okay. Breath. We’ll think about breathing. Breathing all the way._ The vice loosened up enough that you weren’t choking anymore. You kept concentrating on breathing. It reminded you of the stupid meditation lessons Mother had you take when you were nine—you thought of breathing again. You would try this for today. Just today. Just breathing. Not about the way your heart tried to run away when Kurosaki got near you or shot you that peculiar look or thought about various explicit things, not the way your head hurt when the Kurosakis bashed through windows and doors and skyscrapers, not the way the silence left behind by the lack of Kurosaki’s mental presence stung more than the way his thoughts pounded at your skull. Nope, none of that. Just breathing. 

Based on his typical scowl, Kurosaki didn’t seem annoyed or bothered by how long it took you to get outside. He just led the way to his house. You assumed, by the lack of the rest of the Kurosaki posse’s presence, that his friends had gone off their own ways already. 

You walked in silence until you neared the Kasazaki district. 

“So how far is your house?” 

“My Dad’s clinic is in the Minamikawase district, near the Karasu river, so not that much more.” Kurosaki thought about his father and sisters. You focused on breathing, letting his musings flow from one ear to the next. “I should warn you, he’s kind of weird. He… likes to attack me.” 

“What?” _Is his bloodthirsty nature hereditary?! Shit!_ You hadn’t considered that. If it was, that would explain why he wasn’t getting treated for it! _Shit! Shit! Shit—breathing! Breathing, just think of breathing._ Your heart and lungs competed for who would get to the emergency exit first: they would survive, even if you wouldn’t! _I can’t fucking think of breathing when I’m about to actually die—_

“Yeah, but he only does it to me. Just walk in after and you’ll be fine. He says he does it to keep me on my toes, but really it’s just a pain.” Kurosaki scowled in the way a teenager gripping about their parents does and not in the way a homicidal person about to murder you does. He reflected on how annoying his dad acted, not on killing you—actually about ensuring you didn’t get hurt in the event his dad’s attack went wide—the butterflies in your stomach grew excited and tried to fly out with your heart. You scolded them both with the reminder that you kind of needed your heart to stay alive. The butterflies were too excited to be brought down by logic. They resolved to fly out with everything! “Anyways, you said you had a brother. Do you live with him instead of your parents?” 

Your heart still pounded uncomfortably fast, and Kurosaki’s thoughts meandered in at least five different directions—skyscrapers and stabbing his father with a sword and people with holes in their chest and basically anything and everything having to do with burying a body alive in order to avoid that strain in the back of his head about being alone in a room with you, close enough to touch, to taste— _He asked a question,_ you reminded yourself and let the hammering thoughts flow through your head. It was almost like a really powerful river, you were beginning to realize. If you tried to build a dam to block it out, it pounded away harder at the walls until it broke through. If you just let it flow by, it didn’t hurt as much. It merely distracted you by roaring obnoxiously loudly. 

“Why would you think that?” you asked, and then remembered what types of thoughts inhabited his head and the general behavioral patterns of people who were like that. “Are you stalking me?!” 

“What?! No! I mean—Orihime did that. Lived with her brother. So, it makes sense to me…” Kurosaki huffed and shifted his messenger bag around. “We turn here.” He pointed at the upcoming crosswalk, his pace picking up. 

_—stupid stupid stupid why you gotta be so stupid? Just talk about something else._

_… ya could not talk at all…_

_Fuck off!_

Albino Kurosaki didn’t so much sigh as shrug. The movement, so… sullen compared to all the other warring that went on in Kurosaki’s head, you actually wanted to follow the thought for once—but the river of distraction swelled with a multitude of overwhelming sensations. You told yourself not to build a barrier, just let it go, just breathe, just keep talking and maybe the discussion would distract Kurosaki enough that all his personalities would fall silent. 

“Yeah, I live with him. Mother thought it would be good for me to return to Japan and stay with him for a year,” you lied. This was one lie you’d considered long and hard before even enrolling in Karakura High School. “Do you have any siblings?” 

“Two sisters. Both younger. They’re annoying.” He stared across the street at three cats perched on a cement wall: an orange tabby, a black and white tom, and a purely black cat. Their tails hung over the edges of the wall, twitching and swaying to an unheard tempo, and their gazes tracked your passage closely. Kurosaki scowled. 

“I think they’re following me,” you joked to an undesirably negative reaction. Kurosaki jerked his head around so hard, you were pretty sure he’d suffer whiplash for it later. His entire upper body tensed. Even his knuckles turned white as he gripped his bag. 

“Are you serious?” 

“I’m joking! Geez, they’re just cats. They’re not gonna… hurt you.” You chose your words carefully, the river swelling up to your toes with swirls of blood mixed in. Your insides threatened to tumble out at the sight. 

“Oh…” The tension left his body and the river ebbed back down, the blood drifting away. It was so hard not to just build a dam, and then ten more, to block it right then and there. Kurosaki rubbed his neck, visibly forcing an awkward laugh. “You must be the Pied Piper!” 

_Heh. Pied Piper of th’ King_

_Shut it. Shut it. Shut it. Shut it!_

_Ya should try smiling more. Unless ya like making her afraid,_ Albino Kurosaki snapped, his teeth flashing in a mockery of a grin. 

In the span of a split second—if you blinked, you would’ve missed it—you saw Kurosaki frown, smile hard, scowl, and then smile less like he was attempting to have an aneurism and more… thoughts accompanied the smile, thoughts of a light brown haired woman in an apron with an angelic halo and a warm grin. Her hugs drove off monsters. Her words healed wounds. Her food improved moods. To you, she was the epitome of a Disney Mother. The realization hurt your chest. 

But damn, that _smile._

You really wanted to take a picture of it, and just looking at it made the stupid butterflies— _ugh. Why’s he gotta be insane?!_ You turned away quickly and walked faster down the street. 

“Wrong way!” 

Looking back, you caught Kurosaki smirking at you – _the bastard!_ – in such a way that it knotted up the butteries all over again. And the cats on the wall, they looked like they were smirking too! 

“Come on, this way.” Kurosaki took pity on you and grabbed your wrist. He proceeded to pull you down another street. The heat of his hand traveled up your arm and through the rest of you, warming everything from your skin to your bones to the river of distraction trickling through your head. In that river, you noted the laughter, the grins of the Kurosaki posse, Yuzu’s cooking, and what you looked like embarrassed. You ducked your head down, really wishing the ground would animate and eat you right now. But that embarrassed expression wasn’t surrounded by cruel laughter or mockery, it was surrounded by that too-warm river. 

_I have a serious problem._ You decided. _A very serious problem that needs to be addressed._ Kurosaki kept his hand around your wrist, leading you even though you could now see the Kurosaki Clinic sign up ahead. _But later. Much later._

~

You regretted entering the clinic immediately, if only for Kurosaki’s father’s livelihood. 

“I’m home—” Kurosaki called. He made sure to walk through the door first and made you stand a good three feet behind him. ‘Just in case. I’m serious. Don’t move from that spot!’ he’d whispered. You followed his instructions to the letter, although by now you were beginning to think – hope, pray for totally not selfish reasons – that Kurosaki’s malevolent ideas were all confined to his head. 

Your hopes died swiftly. 

“HYA!” A foot flew out of nowhere to kick Kurosaki’s face! 

You immediately took a step back, running into the shut door, and pulled your bag up as a shield between you and the fighting duo. They moved so quickly—one moment, Kurosaki’s father tried kicking him in the face and the next Kurosaki threw him into another hallway by grabbing that same foot! 

“You’ve gotten better at keeping your guard up son! I’m so proud!” Kurosaki’s father yelled so loudly, you were certain the neighboring districts heard him. Your ears rang. “But you must be faster for counterattacks!” He flew at him again with another kick. You inched away from the door and tried getting your body to mold into the nearby wall—the wall kindly refused your offer, but would consider you if future wall openings became available—as Kurosaki ducked the kick, punched his father in the gut, and then tossed him across the room again. His father dragged him along and soon they became a tumbleweed of flailing limbs and karate sounds. 

“You bastard! Is this any way to greet your son in front of guests?!” 

“Guests?” Just like that, Kurosaki’s father stopped attacking him. You could see them both clearly once more, Kurosaki holding his father up by the collar and thinking of how best he could strangle him to death, and his father peering over Kurosaki’s shoulder at you with a gleeful expression. 

At this point, you expected Kurosaki’s father to think just like Kurosaki. 

Fortunately, you were mistaken. 

_Finally, Ichigo has a girlfriend! His mother would be so proud of him, making girlfriends and protecting them~! Oh, I hope she becomes my fourth daughter, I’m so blessed to have so many wonderful daughters: Yuzu, Karin, Rukia, and now this lovely girl too~!_ The loop of joy and happiness and pride and fluff built and built and _built_ into a tower of loving thoughts that threatened to smoother you with fatherly adoration. This, like Kurosaki’s earlier memories of his mother, stabbed at your chest. You tried not to focus on how much it ached, and instead let his father’s thoughts wash over you, let them wash away the parts of you that had glued yourself to the wall and begun considering call the police. 

“Ignore them.” A girl spoke at your elbow, startling the crap out of you. She stood shorter than Ichigo, with equally short black hair pulled back into a ponytail and a bored, almost sour, expression fixed to her face. “They’re always like this.” She brushed past you into the living room, quick enough that you barely caught her thoughts; _Ichigo brought a girl home? This is different. He barely ever even brings Orihime over…_

Another girl her height that resembled her, but had light brown hair pulled into low pigtails and a sweet smile, drifted after her. The girl paused, bowed politely to you and said, “Welcome to the Kurosaki household. My name is Yuzu, that was my sister Karin, and that’s my papa Isshin.” 

This girl, like Isshin, endlessly reflected on happy, non-violent, matters. 

_I should make an extra special dinner since we have a guest! Oh, I hope Papa didn’t bother Big Brother or scare this nice lady too much. He means so well, but it doesn’t always work._

You quickly stopped listening in. It was easy. The thoughts were so happy, so fluffy, like cotton candy and rainbows and cute kittens—they were as addicting as cigarettes and infectious and if you let yourself you would just drift in that rainbow stream of joy forever—but they were private. They were these people’s thoughts and you could actually block them out with little effort, unlike Kurosaki’s rampages. Their happiness reminded you of every reason why hearing people’s personal thoughts was wrong. Why you were wrong. You latched onto Kurosaki’s thoughts, the river of overwhelming heady sensations that drowned out even your own mind, and smiled at Yuzu, introducing yourself just as politely. 

Kurosaki squished his father with a foot. “We’re going upstairs to study. Don’t bother us old man.” 

“Will you stay for dinner?” Yuzu asked. 

“Why do you always have to ask that? Maybe she wants to go home and eat with her normal family.” Karin griped from another room – you figured the kitchen, by the sound of a fridge opening. _Geez, Yuzu, can’t you tell she’s freaked out by us?_

“Karin! Don’t ruin your appetite! I’m making something special tonight!” Yuzu dashed out of the room and into the other. 

“Come on,” Kurosaki grabbed your wrist again, the heat warming completely inappropriate and unrelated parts of your body again. “Let’s go before they recover.” 

Isshin suddenly blocked the hallway. “Wait!” Kurosaki’s grip tightened on your wrist. His father wisely did not move from his road block position, “Please say you’ll stay for dinner?” Sparkles circled his head as he puppy-eyed you, and you seriously wondered _how the hell_ he managed that. _I’ll teach her how to do a proper karate kick, and we’ll look at pictures of Ichigo as a baby, and we’ll all work at the clinic together, and Masaki will just be so, sniff, so, sniff, so proud of all our daughters~!_

_… and I’ll make desert tonight as well. This is a perfect chance to try that chocolate glazed crème-brule recipe!_

_Wait, Yuzu’s grabbing the baking ingredients. That means if she stays, Yuzu’ll make a delicious desert! She has to stay! I need desert!_

“Hey, you should totally stay!” Karin shouted, “But only if you want good food!” 

_My family is so dead. All of them. Dead._

_Heh._

“Yes!” you agreed, wanting nothing more than to ensure that Kurosaki didn’t kill off his wonderful relatives (and definitely not anything to do with his wandering thoughts about alone time). 

“Okay, she agreed. Now get out of the way.” Kurosaki shoved his father aside and dragged you off. 

“Don’t hoard her, Ichigo! She’s my daughter too!” Isshin hollered from his fallen pose. 

“Ignore him,” Kurosaki grouched, twitching. 

What had you gotten yourself into?


	21. (M) Chapter 11: Burning One Hell Of A Something

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> male-reader perspective

What had you gotten yourself into? 

Kurosaki locked the door and brushed past you to dump his bag on his bed. You became a statue, attempting to blend in so well with your environment that Kurosaki forgot you existed. 

It didn’t work. 

He sat on his bed and then stared at you, the gears in his head turning and turning and turning. 

_Could be he’s a fullbringer like Kūgo or Tsukishima and—_

_Yer thinkin’ too much King,_ Albino Kurosaki hissed. _Stop thinkin' and get fucking._

_Like hell I’m listening to you! You got us into this mess!_

_An’ who lost us our powers last time, huh?! Who’s the one so stupid as to_ protect _these weakling ants, eh?_

_Shut up! They’re not ants, they’re my friends!_

_Friends that tried t’_ kill _us_

_That wasn’t their fault!_

The river flowed in. The river flowed out. It rose to take down the nearby trees and houses and attempted to suction in your own two feet, but you stepped back, _step, step, step,_ and just let it flow by with all that debris. You eyed Kurosaki warily. Eyed the way his brown eyes flickered with gold and focused on some bump in the wall behind you. Eyed the way his hands gripped his bed sheets, the way his fists tightened and his knuckles turned white. If he suddenly went psycho, would he really kill his family? Your heart pounded hard against your ribcage. If the personality in charge switched, would he really... screw you? Your palms felt sweaty, and the butterflies in your stomach clamored loudly. You remembered how warm and cheerful Yuzu’s thoughts of baking felt, how delighted and proud Isshin’s thoughts of his children felt, how soft Kurosaki’s thoughts of his mother felt. Whatever Kurosaki was in charge, you needed to distract them from thinking too much. The more they thought, the more confused you got and the more likely they seemed to snap. 

Gripping your bag, you took the short steps towards Kurosaki’s bed and similarly dumped it next to him, proceeding to rummage through the contents for your schoolwork. 

“I thought about it a bit, and you’re right. It might be simpler to just do something with medicine.” 

Kurosaki blinked at you, his eyes brown, his eyes gold, and his eyes brown again. You wished the stupid cats had been wrong. You wished his eyes were really hazel. You wished his thoughts weren’t so loud. You wished your heart would stop racing every time you were in the same room with him. You wished a lot of things, but none of them came true. 

“It doesn’t interest either of us.” He finally said, plainly, almost coldly. 

_You’re hot and you’re cold, you’re yes and you’re no…_ your brain sang. You would get that song stuck in your head if you weren’t careful. 

“Well then what interests you?” you asked, to which Kurosaki stared at you. Really stared—not through, like he tended to do when his personalities started fighting and whatnot or when the gears in his head rotated—but directly at you, as though he could see the thoughts in your head as easily as you could hear the sheer _hunger_ in his mind. You imagined that hunger was why his staring felt so intense and wondered not for the first time what it was like for normal non-telepathic people with freakish crushes to stare at one another and if they, too, interpreted it as intensely as you did. 

_… do it… do it… come on… jus’ once… do it,_ Albino Kurosaki urged. His voice strained to stay calm, to stay even, to stay just shy of a whisper. Kurosaki lifted a hand up, reaching for you, and—froze. He stared past you, at someone with short black hair—you turned around to look, but found only Kurosaki’s nightstand and the wall. But his head, in his head you could see he wasn’t staring at the wall he was staring at someone. You looked back at Kurosaki questioningly. Was he imagining it? The way small children played pretend so vividly, they could see people that weren’t there? It didn’t feel like he imagined a girl standing there in a strange, almost samurai-esque outfit. Her scowling face looked familiar too… _Rukia! Wait,_ you frowned at Kurosaki. _Why the hell is he imagining Rukia in here? Is this some kind of… murder fantasy?_ He’d had those, plenty of those, so many that you knew what they felt and tasted and smelt like. This didn’t feel like a murder fantasy. 

“Kurosaki?” you voiced. “Is something the matter?” 

His hand dropped to the bed. He scowled, hard, and turned to rummage through his own bag. 

“I don’t really care what topic we pick. Here’s my list,” he handed the sheet from yesterday to you. “I’ll be back. I’m going to use the bathroom.” And with that, and really nothing else, he strode out. 

You watched him leave, the part of the paper that he’d handed to you still warm. That warmth quickly faded until there was just you, standing in Kurosaki’s too big room, feeling oddly cold and oddly dissatisfied and oddly aware of your uniquely freakish nature. It reminded you of when you were little, really little back when you’d still lived in Japan, and all the kids in the playground didn’t want to play with you because you knew exactly what pretend game they’d made up before they said anything. You shook this memory off, the same way your brother had pretended to be a dinosaur to scare away all the small mean children, and busied yourself with picking a topic. If Kurosaki really didn’t care then, well, _fine_. You’d pick Grim Reapers. 

~

Kurosaki returned after you’d claimed his desk as your own personal throne. He took this in stride, or at least seemed to by the way he settled back onto his bed at the end closest to you with little more than a grunt and “Hey.” 

“I’ve decided Grim Reapers,” you announced in the same manner one would speak of the weather. Given Kurosaki’s previous reaction to the proposed topic, it was a rude decision – but you didn’t care. If Kurosaki wanted another topic, then he could communicate that with more than a grunt. 

“… How would we cover Grim Reapers? Do you know any?” 

You tilted your head sideways so you could look over your shoulder at Kurosaki and give him a proper glower, drawling, “Do it look like I know any walking skeletons?” 

You expected a scowl. In fact, you were going for a scowl. There was some burning itch in you that wanted to dig Kurosaki’s bones out and turn him into an exoskeleton. It was a perfectly reasonable desire. Really. 

But he didn’t scowl. He laughed! 

That was the first sign. 

The sound threw you utterly off-guard—Kurosaki could laugh, you were making him laugh! You felt yourself heating up in odd places. You quickly turned back towards Kurosaki’s desk, looking diligently through your notes. 

“Do you have a better topic idea?” Wait, no! No, no no! It was going to be Grim Reapers and you weren’t going to give him the option to change it. Don’t let his tactics distract you from the goal! 

Kurosaki kept laughing, his thoughts striking a cord in you. _Man, this guy is great!_ Simple, undisturbed, peaceful—these words didn’t quite encapsulate the sensation of his musings. You didn’t notice you had turned around and begun gawking openly, but it didn’t matter, Kurosaki was giving himself a stitch in the side by laughing. 

That was the second sign. 

You turned back towards the desk again. When Kurosaki finally settled enough, he slid back across the bed until he could lean towards you, reaching over you to grab and examine your papers, humming to himself. 

“No, your idea looks pretty solid. I’m fine with Grim Reapers, I was just wondering where you got the idea from?” His sudden proximity derailed your thoughts of— _so he doesn’t remember Urahara’s shop and my spiel about literature or that stupid plunder about his name_ —leaning so close you caught the scent of his aftershave while he flipped through your papers idly. He debated the feasibility and difficulty of this topic whole-mindedly. No glass broke. No buildings shook. After some time, he noticed your staring and began wondering if you were actually secretly interested in Ichigo and how he had been handling that interest so far… 

The third sign clicked. 

**This wasn’t Kurosaki.**

“Wh—” you stopped your mouth just barely from saying ‘who are you,’ letting it fumble with your brain for the right next words that wouldn’t trigger some kind of psychopathic murderous meltdown. “I-uh-uhhhhhh.” Kurosaki raised his eyebrows expectantly, his scowl subdued and devoid of meaning. It was a sham. 

He was a sham. 

“You?” 

“Need to use the bathroom!” You bolted for the door. 

Outside, Yuzu waited with a plate of sinfully delicious snacks. The overwhelming chocolate scent, with just the right sprinkle of cinnamon and glazed cream, dragged you down into a foggy cloud of adorable panda-shaped treats. “Would you like one?” 

One? No. All of them? Yes. 

“The bathroom’s that way.” Not-Kurosaki poked his head out ever so helpfully. You could feel his not-hazel eyes contemplating your rear end and evaluating its appeal based on a femininity scale. It was objective and thorough, very much unlike Kurosaki’s murderous rampages or his typical rough and sweet caresses of your particular bone structure – like a kid inspecting food he’d never thought to try before. 

By Yuzu’s expression, you guessed you were making funny faces right now. Your forehead and mouth certainly hurt with whatever exertion you were placing on yourself. 

“Thank you Kurosaki, that is very helpful.” You strode towards the bathroom. Three steps in, your turned on your heel, snatched one of the many heavenly panda-shaped glazed cinnamon bun deserts, and resumed going to the bathroom. 

You were determined to hide in there until your Kurosaki returned. Er, until the psychopathic Kurosaki—that is, the belligerent—was there no positive way to describe him?! 

~

Half an hour later, not-Kurosaki knocked on the bathroom door. 

“Hey, Yuzu’s snack didn’t make you sick or anything?” 

You considered not answering, but that would be rude. Besides, you didn’t want to encourage him to follow through with his concerned thoughts and break down the door. 

“No.” 

The bathroom clocked ticked. It was quite loud. Irritating, really. Not-Kurosaki’s thoughts meandered in none-intrusive routes, rather subdued compared to the violence you were used to. So soft, you barely heard his thinking. It was too easy to ignore. 

“Did I offend you?” 

Not-Kurosaki worried about getting the homework done in time. He worried about taking a shower. He worried about if he upset you—you almost yawned. These thoughts were putting you to sleep. 

“If I did, I’m sorry.” 

_Don’t be so rude,_ you thought to yourself. _Isn’t this what you wanted? A sane Kurosaki that isn’t determined to murder everyone?_ You inspected your nails, recalling a visual of black nails digging into your hipbone. A shiver raced up your spine. 

“You didn’t offend me.” You finally answered. 

The clocked ticked ten seconds. 

“Mist—…” Not-Kurosaki’s thoughts spiked, _Call him Dad. Call him Dad!_ “—Dad, isn’t so bad.” 

You evaluated the door, not really hearing Kurosaki’s offer to walk you back to his room in case Isshin made you feel unsafe. A feeling ballooned in your chest, the kind of sensation you get when you’re at the high point of a rollercoaster ride – you squashed it. _This is ridiculous. Kurosaki is normal right now so be happy. Don’t focus on tiny odd things. Maybe he’s adopted!_ That would also explain why Kurosaki’s multiple personality disorder and psychopathic nature went unchecked. He may’ve been so recently adopted that his Dad didn’t know the difference? 

Conveniently ignoring the rational part of your brain recalling the pictures of a young Kurosaki with Isshin, you opened the bathroom door. Not-Kurosaki beamed at you. 

“You live!” He joked, coughed, and suddenly scowled. _Ichigo doesn’t joke, remember. Scowl more._ The expression came across as a foreign invasion upon his face. “I mean, this way.” The butterflies died hard and fast. Pretending they were hibernating instead of deceased, you nodded back at not-Kurosaki and let him lead you to his room. 

~

Aside from not-Kurosaki’s random and strange tales and interspersed thoughts evaluating how interested you were in Ichigo and whether or not he should make a move on the worthless idiot’s behalf, the rest of the evening progressed so uneventfully, with serious progress in the project – you had three solid ideas with complete outlines even! – that you actually took note of a mantra you’d apparently begun chanting to yourself. The gist of it was; _Stab stab stab stab stab stab stab stab_. You weren’t sure if it was an attempt to summon the Kurosaki you were familiar with and all his volatile sword swinging, or something less deadly and more sensual… 

What was wrong with you? Craving some kind of defunct madman is not normal. It implies mental degradation of some sort! It’s worse than being telepathic! Probably... 

“And then this giant dog appeared out of nowhere, bigger than even a tree!” Not-Kurosaki recounted dramatically, interrupting your internal debate. You vaguely recall this storytelling had begun with Not-Kurosaki saying something along the lines of ‘deserving a break.’ The tale was entertaining, particularly the visuals not-Kurosaki imagined, but rather animated and devoid of proper scowls. 

Not-Kurosaki paused in his dramatic re-enactment. “Hey, are you alright?” He asked, resting a hand on your arm. 

You missed Kurosaki’s frowns. The fighting and erotic stimuli had been so overwhelming and tangible—you shivered, again, at the memory. 

“Yeah, I’m fine. Just a sugar overdose. What happened with the dog?” 

_Oh man, he really_ is _into Ichigo. The guy doesn’t even know what he’s getting into!_ In the background of not-Kurosaki’s mind, a low hum looped in and out of consciousness. It was the sort of train of thought that interspersed tangible words with barely conscious reflexes and subtly imagery. _Ichigo’s such a stupid jerk!_ Not-Kurosaki leaned closer. A stuffed lion marched around a jungle, a brave adventurer, only to be plucked out of air and shoved into a dress, and then a tea party. The scenery confounded you. Not-Kurosaki tilted his head at a curious angle to exam something on your face. So focused on detangling the humming train in the back of his head, you barely took note of his proximity. ... _wonder if he tastes like a girl_. The angle suddenly dawned on you as quite appropriate. Imagery of Ichigo attempting to converse with you and floundering horribly floated in and out, a distorted image overrun with idiotic hearts like a bad Photoshop job and a stuffed lion cracking up with laughter in the corner. Not-Kurosaki had pulled close enough that you could feel sticky hot puffs of breath against your lips. 

You slapped him. 

“Ouch! That hurt!” Not-Kurosaki yelped, clutching his face like a broken vase. Good. Serves the bastard right. 

“It was supposed to hurt you jackass!” 

He rubbed at his jaw tenderly, muttering so low that you couldn’t actually hear him speak – but you could hear him think it. “ _How do you have such a good right hook? What are you, a shinigami?_ ” 

There was a nice red tint to everything you saw. It burned and it clawed up your throat, like really how could he be one of those asshole people that thought this was okay if he wasn’t that interested? You weren’t some fucking toy to mess with, much less employ in a stupid cupid prank! You grabbed your bag from beside the bed, shoving papers inside without caring if they survived, and turned to march out the door. “This is a waste of time.” 

You’d hardly taken four steps before Kurosaki blocked your path and your head pounded. He stared past you, a look of pure murderous intent scrunching up his features and wearing the oddest outfit you’d ever seen. It looked just like what Rukia had been wearing when he imagined her there. 

Not-Kurosaki squeaked behind you. You turned your head around, staring, and then turned back to the door, and stared at Kurosaki #2. 

FUCK. 

Kurosaki #2 paused from glaring death promises at not-Kurosaki to consider you, carefully, even reaching a hand out like he had before seeing Rukia, but not-Kurosaki’s blubbering reminded him of his earlier agenda and your brain hurt so much. So much. So so much. A war broke out, forming the base of your headache with marching bands drumming on bones and ripping apart stuffed lions. The headache hurt delightfully so, as did your chest because _fuck_ your heart was not built for this anarchy. 

You ducked to the side, the migraine splitting your mind, and tried to hold your brain, keep it from spilling out of your ears, with your hands. Your efforts were fruitless. 

_Fucking rat why th’fuck d’ya leave him in our body?!_ Albino Kurosaki strangled the stuffed lion, his bleach white hands contrasting starkly against the yellow-orange fabric. 

_GONNA KILL THAT MOD SOUL!!!_ Colorful Kurosaki broke a few windows. 

When you looked over your shoulder back at Kurosaki, you saw him actually strangling a stuffed lion identical to the one he’d been imagining all along. Kurosaki #2 was finally gone. The assault of thunderclouds and violence confirmed that whatever not-Kurosaki had been in charge was replaced by Albino and Colorful Kurosaki. Unless your brain wasn’t hallucinating and the stuffed lion was thinking eerily like the not-Kurosaki had. Pain fogged everything over. 

You blinked and Kurosaki slammed his bedroom door shut, huffing and puffing so hard you wondered if he’d blow the house down. The stuffed lion had vanished. _He threw it out_ , brain kindly rewound the last two seconds, complete with the sound effect of something smacking hard enough into a wall that it probably brought the wall down with it. 

You could see Kurosaki’s eyes flickering nonstop from gold, to brown, to gold, to brown again. His thoughts burned. No, that was your lungs burning. You forgot how to breathe. Kurosaki did it for you both with his loud huffing. The muscles in his arms strained— _pulled you close, close enough you couldn’t tell where your body ended and his began_ — 

_I can’t do that!_ Colorful Kurosaki snapped. 

_Ya let tha’ fuckin’ thing touch him!_

_And he didn’t like it, and he doesn’t know the difference, which means he doesn’t want—_

_Like fuck he doesn’ know the difference!_

The Kurosakis fought, bashing into walls and windows. Lighting colored a darkened sky within their dismal city. 

Your legs felt like jelly, the sensation making you realize you’d begun walking at some point. Kurosaki’s gaze flowed over you, a lion tracking its prey as you stepped towards him— _a blue tongue traced your throat, teeth nipping at the juncture of your collarbone and neck—swords clanged, the sound louder than thunder_ —Kurosaki reached out a hand, steadying you. A very tangible heat radiated off of Kurosaki, spreading from his hand on your arm, engulfing all of you— 

_I swear I’m gonna kill you Hollow._

_Jus’ try._

_This needs to stop_ , you thought, placed a hand on his chest— 

And kissed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: The scene with Kon was extremely difficult to write because, although he’s the perverted type of character, he’s notoriously perverted with women and not men. So the question became: how to get the scene to move forward sensibly and to accurately convey his motives behind kissing reader? Anyone that reads the male perspectives, I’d love to hear feedback on how believable that scene came across.


	22. (F) Chapter 11: Burning One Hell Of A Something

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> female-reader perspective

What had you gotten yourself into? 

Kurosaki locked the door and brushed past you to dump his bag on his bed. You became a statue, attempting to blend in so well with your environment that Kurosaki forgot you existed. 

It didn’t work. 

He sat on his bed and then stared at you, the gears in his head turning and turning and turning. 

_Could be she’s a fullbringer like Kūgo or Tsukishima and—_

_Yer thinkin’ too much King,_ Albino Kurosaki hissed. _Stop thinkin' and get fucking._

_Like hell I’m listening to you! You got us into this mess!_

_An’ who lost us our powers last time, huh?! Who’s the one so stupid as to_ protect _these weakling ants, eh?_

_Shut up! They’re not ants, they’re my friends!_

_Friends that tried t’_ kill _us_

_That wasn’t their fault!_

The river flowed in. The river flowed out. It rose to take down the nearby trees and houses and attempted to suction in your own two feet, but you stepped back, _step, step, step,_ and just let it flow by with all that debris. You eyed Kurosaki warily. Eyed the way his brown eyes flickered with gold and focused on some bump in the wall behind you. Eyed the way his hands gripped his bed sheets, the way his fists tightened and his knuckles turned white. If he suddenly went psycho, would he really kill his family? Your heart pounded hard against your ribcage. If the personality in charge switched, would he really... screw you? Your palms felt sweaty, and the butterflies in your stomach rioted. You remembered how warm and cheery Yuzu’s thoughts of baking felt, how delighted and proud Isshin’s thoughts of his children felt, how soft Kurosaki’s thoughts of his mother felt. Whatever Kurosaki was in charge, you needed to distract them from thinking too much. The more they thought, the more confused you got and the more likely they seemed to snap. 

Gripping your bag, you took the short steps towards Kurosaki’s bed and similarly dumped it next to him, proceeding to rummage through the contents for your schoolwork. 

“I thought about it a bit, and you’re right. It might be simpler to just do something with medicine.” 

Kurosaki blinked at you, his eyes brown, his eyes gold, and his eyes brown again. You wished the stupid cats had been wrong. You wished his eyes were really hazel. You wished his thoughts weren’t so loud. You wished your heart would stop racing every time you were in the same room with him. You wished a lot of things, but none of them came true. 

“It doesn’t interest either of us.” He finally said, plainly, almost coldly. 

_You’re hot and you’re cold, you’re yes and you’re no…_ your brain sang. You would get that song stuck in your head if you weren’t careful. 

“Well then what interests you?” you asked, to which Kurosaki stared at you. Really stared—not through, like he tended to do when his personalities started fighting and whatnot or when the gears in his head rotated—but directly at you, as though he could see the thoughts in your head as easily as you could hear the sheer _hunger_ in his mind. You imagined that hunger was why his staring felt so intense and wondered not for the first time what it was like for normal non-telepathic people with freakish crushes to stare at one another and if they, too, interpreted it as intensely as you did. 

_… do it… do it… come on… jus’ once … do it_ , Albino Kurosaki urged. His voice strained to stay calm, to stay even, to stay just shy of a whisper. Kurosaki lifted a hand up, reaching for you, and—froze. He stared past you, at someone with short black hair—you turned around to look, but found only Kurosaki’s nightstand and the wall. But his head, in his head you could see he wasn’t staring at the wall he was staring at someone. You looked back at Kurosaki questioningly. Was he imagining it? The way small children played pretend so vividly, they could see people that weren’t there? It didn’t feel like he imagined a girl standing there in a strange, almost samurai-esque outfit. Her scowling face looked familiar too… _Rukia! Wait_ , you frowned at Kurosaki. _Why the hell is he imagining Rukia in here? Is this some kind of… murder fantasy?_ He’d had those, plenty of those, so many that you knew what they felt and tasted and smelt like. This didn’t feel like a murder fantasy. 

“Kurosaki?” you voiced. “Is something the matter?” 

His hand dropped to the bed. He scowled, hard, and turned to rummage through his own bag. 

“I don’t really care what topic we pick. Here’s my list,” he handed the sheet from yesterday to you. “I’ll be back. I’m going to use the bathroom.” And with that, and really nothing else, he strode out. 

You watched him leave, the part of the paper that he’d handed to you still warm. That warmth quickly faded until there was just you, standing in Kurosaki’s too big room, feeling oddly cold and oddly dissatisfied and oddly aware of your uniquely freakish nature. It reminded you of when you were little, really little back when you’d still lived in Japan, and all the kids in the playground didn’t want to play with you because you knew exactly what game they’d made up before they said anything. You shook this memory off, the same way your brother had pretended to be a dinosaur to scare away all the small mean children, and busied yourself with picking a topic. If Kurosaki really didn’t care then, well, _fine_. You’d pick Grim Reapers. 

~

Kurosaki returned after you’d claimed his desk as your own personal throne. He took this in stride, or at least seemed to by the way he settled back onto his bed at the end closest to you with little more than a grunt. 

“I’ve decided Grim Reapers,” you announced, almost blithely. It was a jerkish decision, but you didn’t bother rationalizing it. With the way things kept going, it was probably Kurosaki’s fault. 

So it was Kurosaki’s fault. 

“… How would we cover Grim Reapers? Do you know any?” 

You tilted your head sideways so you could look over your shoulder at Kurosaki and give him a proper glower. “Does it look like I know any walking skeletons?” 

You expected a scowl. In fact, you were going for a scowl. There was some burning itch in you that wanted to dig Kurosaki’s bones out and turn him into an exoskeleton. It was a perfectly reasonable desire. Really. 

But he didn’t scowl. He laughed! 

That was the first sign. 

The sound threw you utterly off-guard—Kurosaki could laugh, you were making him laugh! You felt yourself heating up in odd places. You quickly turned back towards Kurosaki’s desk, looking diligently through your notes. 

“Do you have a better topic idea?” Wait, no! No, no no! It was going to be Grim Reapers and you weren’t going to give him the option to change it. Don’t let his tactics distract you from the goal! 

When Kurosaki’s shadow fell over you, you nearly jumped right out the window—this was it, he was going to kill you!—but his hand on your shoulder kept you in place. He perused your notes quickly with a thoughtful hum followed by a leisurely mental examination of your physic and whether or not you were interested in Ichigo. 

That was the second sign. 

“No, your idea looks pretty solid. I’m fine with Grim Reapers, I was just wondering where you got the idea from?” He leaned casually into your space, derailing your thoughts of— _so he doesn’t remember Urahara’s shop and my spiel about literature or that stupid blunder_ —leaning in the same way some of your more physically active classmates in France would poach their next target— 

The third sign clicked. 

**This wasn’t Kurosaki.**

“Wh—“ you stopped your mouth just barely from saying ‘who are you,’ letting it fumble with your brain for the right next words that wouldn’t trigger some kind of psychopathic murderous meltdown. “I-uh-uhhhhhh.” Kurosaki smirked in a slow manner, dragging the movement out. 

“You?” 

“Needtousethebathroom!” You bolted for the door. 

Outside, Yuzu waited with a plate of sinfully delicious snacks. The overwhelming chocolate scent, with just the right sprinkle of cinnamon and glazed cream, dragged you down into a foggy cloud of adorable panda-shaped treats.[1] “Would you like one?” 

One? No. All of them? Yes. 

“The bathroom’s that way.” Not-Kurosaki poked his head out ever so helpfully. You could feel his not-hazel eyes performing vigorous examinations on your rear end. It was obscene and thorough, just like Kurosaki’s murderous rampages, yet very much unlike Kurosaki’s typical rough and sweet caresses of your particular bone structure – like a sour green apple candy that had gone stale. 

By Yuzu’s expression, you were probably making funny faces right now. Your forehead and mouth certainly hurt with whatever exertion you were placing on yourself. 

“Thank you Kurosaki, that is very helpful.” You strode towards the bathroom. Three steps in, your turned on your heel, snatched one of the many heavenly panda-shaped glazed cinnamon bun deserts, and resumed going to the bathroom. 

You were determined to hide in there until your Kurosaki returned. Er, until the psychopathic Kurosaki—that is, the belligerent—was there no positive way to describe him?! 

~

Half an hour later, not-Kurosaki knocked on the bathroom door. 

“Hey, Yuzu’s snack didn’t make you sick or anything?” 

You considered not answering, but that would be rude. Besides, no need to encourage him to pursue his concerned thoughts and break down the door. 

“No.” 

The bathroom clocked ticked. It was quite loud. Irritating, really. Not-Kurosaki’s thoughts meandered in none-intrusive routes, rather quiet and subdued compared to what you were used to. So quiet, you barely heard his thinking. It was too easy to ignore. 

“Did I offend you?” 

Not-Kurosaki worried about getting the homework done in time. He worried about taking a shower. He worried about if he upset you—you almost yawned. These thoughts could put you to sleep. 

“If I did, I’m sorry.” 

_Don’t be so rude_ , you thought to yourself. _Isn’t this what you wanted? A sane Kurosaki that doesn’t want to murder everyone?_ You picked at the dirt under your nails. They were short, because you clipped them to keep from biting them. It made getting the dirt out from underneath neigh impossible. 

“You didn’t offend me.” You finally answered. 

The clocked ticked ten seconds. 

“Mist—…” Not-Kurosaki’s thoughts spiked, _Call him Dad. Call him Dad!_ “—Dad, isn’t so bad.” 

You considered the door, not really hearing Kurosaki’s offer to walk you back to his room in case Isshin made you feel unsafe. A feeling ballooned in your chest, the kind of sensation you get when you’re at the high point of a rollercoaster ride – you squashed it. _This is ridiculous. Kurosaki is normal right now so be happy. Don’t focus on tiny odd things. Maybe he’s adopted!_ That would also explain why Kurosaki’s multiple personality disorder and psychopathic nature went unchecked. He may’ve been so recently adopted that his Dad didn’t know the difference? 

Conveniently ignoring the rational part of your brain recalling the pictures of a young Kurosaki with Isshin, you opened the bathroom door. Not-Kurosaki beamed at you. 

“This way, m’lady~” He tried for charm. The butterflies died fast and hard. Pretending they were hibernating instead of deceased, you smiled back at not-Kurosaki and let him lead you to his room. 

~

He tried for charm another two times, found it didn’t work, and tried for humor instead. Not-Kurosaki regaled you with stories of fighting off giant stuffed animals to save a young princess – apparently he played with children frequently – and aiding the infamous Don Kanonji in hunting ghosts at abandoned warehouses. These were hit and miss, because while most of it made utterly no sense, some entertaining visuals were running through not-Kurosaki’s head. 

Between bites of one of Yuzu’s heavenly deserts, you played along. 

“Okay, then how did you cross the river if you don’t know how to swim?” 

“A dog gave me a ride.” 

You snorted a laugh, covered your mouth, and tried to ignore the visual of a soaking stuffed lion riding across a river on a dog’s back. 

Not-Kurosaki grinned. His pride over his victory almost drowned out the mental images. 

This Kurosaki wasn’t too terrible. He didn’t cause a pounding headache or a storm of butterflies, and your body didn’t riot uproariously for want of some unfathomable hunger despite the fact that it was still faced with this lean, muscular, appealing individual. But maybe that was just your imagination getting away with you in pursuit of some bad-boy stereotype surreally made fantastic by societally-pressured ideals and general it’s-taboo-so-it-must-be-AWESOME logic. He was still attractive, and on the plus side he didn’t want to murder you or the world, and he didn’t frown nearly as much. 

You missed the frowns. 

What was wrong with you? Craving some kind of defunct madman is not normal. It implies mental degradation of some sort! It’s worse than being telepathic! … maybe. 

Kurosaki began leaning closer, his head tilting at a curious angle to exam something on your face. Were there chocolate cinnamon crumbles on your chin? You reached up to pat your mouth and not-Kurosaki grabbed your wrist, gently nudging your hand aside. 

_Oh._

He leaned closer still, the angle suddenly dawning on you as quite appropriate. If you mimicked him, but not mirrored, then you might be able to determine if the chocolate cinnamon deserts tasted better on him, since he ate one too. Or maybe he wouldn’t taste like chocolate, maybe he tasted bitter like coffee. 

The thought did not appeal, as did kissing this Kurosaki. 

A frown pulled at your lips, not-Kurosaki unable to see it as he’d already closed his not-gold-brown-flickering eyes and pulled close enough that you could smell the chocolate on his breath, feel the sticky hot puffs against your lips, taste the desperation in his thoughts, hear Ichigo screaming death threats— _what?_

Kurosaki jerked to the left, his head twisting around your shoulder, and coughed violently while a marching band drumming on bones and ripping apart stuffed lions called your head its home. The headache hurt delightfully so, as did your chest because _fuck_ your heart was not built for this anarchy. Kurosaki’s knees brushed your thighs, and kept close even as he pulled back, his hand covering his mouth, and dug around under the bed until he came up with a stuffed lion. 

Was he really going to murder it now? Why was this a turn-on? Is there a fetish for stuffed animal murder fantasies? 

He proceeded to shove what looked like a pill into the lion’s mouth and then strangle the poor stuffed creature. You weren’t entirely sure if you should ask any questions. This is one of those types of bad signs that you should report to the police, right…? 

Kurosaki’s knee brushed yours again— _albino hands trailed over your breasts, down your sides, nails lightly scrapping, claiming, down until they wrapped around your waist_ —Kurosaki stood up, opened the door, and tossed the stuffed lion out. A muffed bang signaled it had hit the hallway wall. Kurosaki slammed the door promptly. 

When he turned around, you saw his eyes flickering nonstop from gold, to brown, to gold, to brown again. Your lungs burned. You forgot how to breathe. Kurosaki did it for you both, huffing loudly. The muscles in his arms strained— _pulled you close, close enough you couldn’t tell where your body ended and his began_ — 

Your legs felt like jelly, the sensation making you realize you’d begun standing at some point. Kurosaki’s gaze flowed over you, a lion tracking its prey as you stepped towards him— _a blue tongue traced your throat, teeth nipping at the juncture of your collarbone and neck_ —he reached out a hand, steadying you. A very tangible heat radiated off of Kurosaki, spreading from his hand on your arm, engulfing all of you— 

_This needs to stop_ , you thought, placed a hand on his chest— 

And kissed. 

Some distant part of your brain kindly pointed out that this did not constitute “stopping.” Just as kindly, you told it to shut up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [1] I wasted at least an hour ~~drooling over~~ researching images of chocolate chip brownie Oreo bars and considering baking instead of writing but—writing prevailed.


	23. (M) Chapter 12: Upside Down And Inside Out

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: I bring to you—a super long chapter! Sorry for the delay, but I’ve burned through my buffer zone and kind of stupidly been working on several other stories instead.
> 
> male-reader perspective

To say Isshin was concerned would be the understatement of the year. His wonderful son’s reiatsu spiked through the roof, leaving the unstoppable superhuman father nearly immobile—but Isshin prevailed! He raced up the stairs and slammed into Ichigo’s door.

_Ha! A measly lock cannot stop a father from saving his son!_

Isshin kicked the door down and rushed inside—only to be smacked in the face by his unkind, entirely selfish offspring! The horror!

He had barely a moment to see his son’s new friend staring eerily off to the side and into the distance. He thought he saw golden threads too—but he couldn’t be sure. Isshin flew back out the room, down the stairs, and tumbled to a stop just a foot away from the front doors.

_It’s good to know… I’ve trained him so well~…_

Isshin cried tears of joy. Masaki would be so proud.

But really, that reiatsu was an issue. Perhaps it was time to get in touch with the old guard and volunteer Ichigo for their rigorous training methods?

~

“Mother, I don’t want to do this,” Seven-year-old you declared, stomping your foot and huffing loudly to mask the hurricane of sensations rumbling inside of you. “What if I mess up?”

“You won’t mess up, you’re good at this. You're a good son.”

“What if I break him?” You insisted.

“Then you fix him.” Mother’s tone was even, undisturbed. The calm of the ocean that has never seen a storm, and never will. Mother did not tolerate storms. Her tone took on a double warning: no temper-tantrums now. You looked away, folding your arms to keep yourself warm. You missed brother.

“What if I can’t?”

“Then we bury him.” Mother’s answer was resolute. The solution to all problems. “It’s a very simple procedure. Just go in, and change his mind.”

She held the door open for you. You looked at her, really looked at those unmoving eyes. You felt yourself vanishing inside them with how they suctioned all the light out of the room. You would become a statue, just like Mother. Resolute.

You went inside.

For this, skin contact would be essential. It was what enabled you to slip inside a mind, as though you always belonged there.

~

You did not slip inside Kurosaki’s mind. You crash landed.

A clear sky, completely contrasting your expectations of thunderstorms and rain, floated above. The blindingly bright sun warmed the glass underneath your bare feet. Where your socks had gone, you didn’t know—and honestly, you didn’t give a fuck. These were tiny details.

Bigger details that demanded all of your attention included lips. Warm lips brushed lightly against your own while cold lips teased the corners of your mouth. The contrasting sensation brought to mind ice cream melting between your fingers on a hot day and making them sticky. Shuddering, you rested said fingers against his forearm. The muscles underneath jumped—you bet he was flexing them intentionally to turn you on, _and damn it_ , was it working. You dug your fingers in protest but burning hands gripped your waist, wrapping around your lower back, and pulling you flush against a very well defined body that just begged you to melt into him. It was extremely tempting and— _fuck whatever your brain was saying_.

You melted.

You trailed your hands up his chest and around his neck, tracing the skin that kept twitching, until you were hugging him. If you tilted your head just so, _oh_ , did his lips skim yours nicely. A heat began to coil in the pit of your stomach, coaxed further by the cold hands trailing down your sides. One hand slid just underneath your waistband and the other circled around to massage your butt. _That should not feel good_ , you thought, but thoughts were dumb. In the next instance, the cold hands hoisted you up—and laid you down against the glass. You lost your breath.

Cold lips moved to nip at your jaw, nip a line down your neck. Warm lips insisted on more, on nibbling at your lower lip and on exploring the various crevices inside your mouth. You tried to ground yourself on the differing directions by digging your fingers into his skin, but his body felt and moved differently. One body had more fabric across the chest, the other had a gap that let you make skin contact—although, the skin contact you made was extremely fucking _cold. I was here for something._ You couldn’t remember what, so it must not be important. The hand just underneath your waistband wiggled closer, distracting you from the freezing temperatures. The warm lips dragged against your lower lip, and you moaned. The body over you grinded down, hips against your own—you would just vanish amid these sensations—

A sound echoed in the distance. It grew louder as it grew closer. The hand down your pants began to stroke you, teasingly— _it’s probably just a train_ —just outside your underwear, and _gods_ if that just could go on forever— _what the fuck, is that a plane landing on us?!_

 _No, it has to be a banshee summoning its siblings to war._ You opened your eyes.

You were kissing Albino Kurosaki. You were inside the city.

His hand was partially down your uniform pants, doing terribly wonderfully mind-melting things.

_FUCK_

This was a problem—not the hand, or the kissing, well maybe the kissing but it felt so nice—

Colorful Kurosaki appeared behind him, wielding a sword and swinging it down—

Albino Kurosaki caught it with his hand, a grin slanted across his features and his blue tongue darting out to lick his lips. Blood dripped down his arm. The sight was disturbingly erotic. You lost your breath again. His free hand held onto you, tugging you closer for another mind-numbing kiss—

“STOP THAT!” Colorful Kurosaki smacked him with the blunt side of his sword. Albino Kurosaki flew to the left.

That sword was huge.

You were going to die.

 _This_ was the problem.

‘ _Can’t we just go back to screwing around? That was nice.’_ You wanted to say, but thought instead, and like all other terrible mind-invasions, your thoughts projected loudly on some kind of hidden speaker system.

Colorful Kurosaki blushed, the redness traveling all the way down his neck and making you wonder _just_ exactly how far it went—and that thought, too, broadcasted _damnitfuckshit_. Albino Kurosaki laughed.

 _Asshole_ , you thought.

Albino Kurosaki stopped laughing. “Hey now, if it weren’t for me, y’never would’a kissed!” He smirked suddenly, his teeth flashing in a far too appealing manner. The lewd expression, and the way his eyes traced your body, spoke volumes of just _what_ exactly he could do for you. You shivered. Before he could say more, Colorful Kurosaki was in his face, screaming murder and wielding a sword.

Okay, well, this is your magical chance. They’re distracted and you can, just, y’know, GET THE FUCK OUT OF HERE.

Too bad your legs aren’t cooperating. You looked down to inspect why, because they felt fine, and found yourself lying down on the side of a building. How did it take this long to realize the city was sideways and you could FALL?!

Right. Kissing.

You took a nice minute to daydream about that kissing, staring up at the sky and recalling the way hot and cold fingers traced your skin. You shivered again. _Really_ hard not to try to just go back to that. Colorful and Albino Kurosaki flew by in front of you, a tornado of flashing lights and chaotic noises. They crashed into another building. The building went down.

That would be you in the next two minutes if you DIDN’T FUCKING MOVE, NOW DAMNIT!

Your legs finally worked, adrenaline pumping and whatnot, and you pulled yourself up to run away – _where?_ You didn’t know, but if you got to a spot where you could pull open a door – _wait_.

You were inside Ichigo Kurosaki’s mind. This was the perfect chance to discover who was the real Kurosaki and put them in charge – or better! Convince him to _not_ stab people with his mighty pointy death sword!

And then you could go back to kissing. You grinned, pleased with your thoughts. This way, you’d get the best of both worlds: psychotic headache-inducing Kurosaki and no blood bath. _You’re an idiot,_ brain pointed out. _Shut up_ , you told yourself.

“What the fuck do you mean the real Kurosaki?!”

Too bad all your thoughts were broadcasting.

You started to run. Inside someone else’s head, it’s important to not think and just _do_. So you clapped your hands, because clapping created a very distracting sound in a person’s mind, giving you a magical moment in which you could order, “Door to all doors!” to pop up. A metal door did so, rather nicely, for you and appeared a few inches above the ground. The doorknob was just within reach. Opening the door, you ran inside, and shut it.

Now you just needed to find the door to the core of Kurosaki’s mind, where either the real Kurosaki would be (ideally not) or you could convince him to not murder people (ideally). All theoretical. You have great priorities. (Not.) This shouldn’t be too hard.

The hallway you were in extended endlessly, with over a bazillion shut metal doors along the way. Shadows clung to every tiny crevice, darkening the hallway into something of a nightmarish sort.

What had you gotten yourself into?

~

“How the fuck did he do that?”

“Huh, so tha’s how ya get them to appear.”

“HOLLOW! HOW THE FUCK DID HE DO THAT?!”

“LIKE HELL I KNOW!”

“THIS IS ALL YOUR FAULT! I’M GONNA MURDER YOU!”

“I’d like t’see ya try ya fuckin’ pansy weakling!”

Screaming, they flew at each other again. Their swords clanged.

~

Doordoordoordoordoordoordoor. You needed to find the right door and so far all you found were DEAD BODIES SHIIIIIIIIIT. Some of them even still moved!! You opened another door, hoping, praying, for some kind of bright light. The door revealed fire and a giant muscled pirate with shark teeth and pointy hair. He grinned, not unlike Albino Kurosaki but certainly more frightfully, and fucking flew—damn their flying capabilities!!—through the door, sword first. DAMN THEIR SWORDS.

You ran down the hallway, ripped open another door, saw sky, and jumped through.

Now you were falling to your death. _How is this any better?_ The flying pirate shark man jumped after you, laughing manically. You clapped your hands and said, “Swimming pool!” One appeared below you—okay, good, you wouldn’t crash into a building and die anymore. You’d just drown because FUCKING IDIOT YOU CAN’T SWIM. You clapped your hands again and said, “Real Kurosaki!” But of course that didn’t help. That’s not how minds work. Instead another creepy guy appeared, one that had a really long beard and a body that dissolved into a shadow.

You hit the pool.

Let it be known—hitting water _hurts_.

~

“Is he dyin’?”

“WHAT THE FUCK KIND OF QUESTION IS THAT?”

He sneered at him, his lip curling in disgust. “Can he _swim_ dumbass?”

His idiot King, didn’t even deserve the title the fucking shithead, froze. Like a deer. If this was what he did outside of their head, then it was no wonder the King constantly needed the help of his horse. He began walking towards the pool to grab him, but that stupid Kenpachi-replica that sometimes ran around in their heads surged out first. He reacted without thought – the way you’re _supposed_ to: instinctually. He severed Kenpachi’s head. The body fell back into the pool and the water turned red.

Heh. Nice.

Stupid King finally ran forward, jumped in the pool, and jumped out with the kid. He looked like a drowned cat, all wet with clothes sticking to his limbs. He followed the shape of his body several times, tracing the gold strands of light coursing underneath. He needed it. Now.

~

You gasped in great hunks of beautiful sweet never-ending oxygen—HOLYSHITYOUALMOSTDROWNED! You were hyperventilating. You knew this because, no matter how much you breathed in, it just felt like no oxygen was getting inside of you.

Looking up, you found Colorful Kurosaki – who was hovering over you – breathing very visibly.

“In,” he said, and breathed slowly. You closed your mouth and stopped breathing entirely. “Out,” he said, and breathed out slowly. You mimicked him. He repeated three more times, you copying him, until breathing felt natural again.

Why did he look so hot in such a weird outfit? Was that some kind of bathrobe for funerals? Damn, his arms look freaking strong. Stupid fucking hot guy.

Colorful Kurosaki began reddening again. In the next instance, Albino Kurosaki was holding you. You just blinked and it happened. Your head began to spin.

“Put the boy down, Hollow.” Creepy Old Guy was back.

You stared at him. _He couldn’t be…?_

“Are you Real Kurosaki?”

They all stared at you.

“What the FUCK do you mean?”

“Ya’ said ya’d put the real Kurosaki in charge?”

Albino Kurosaki stared down at you intensely, and I mean _intensely._ His gold eyes were quite bright, shining like cat eyes in the dark. _Is Kurosaki secretly possessed **and** has multiple personality disorder? I don’t think I can handle that._

“I don’t fucking have multiple personality disorder!!” Colorful Kurosaki yelled, only to be ignored.

“Are you the Real Kurosaki?”

Albino Kurosaki grinned slowly, “I can be.”

Nope, he definitely wasn’t. Definitely. Was. Not. And besides, if he was in charge, there would be lots of blood. You could see it already. You almost vomited. There was only one thing do to: change their mind on the issue of homicide. You began wiggling wildly, insistent on being set down. With the hold Albino Kurosaki had on you, that would not be happening any time soon.

“Ichigo, I believe it’s time you explained things to this unfortunate boy.” Creepy Old Man intoned.

“What the fuck do you mean? You heard Urahara, I can’t tell more people!”

You had it. The solution. Their discussion made you think of it—just erase their memory of you.

Albino Kurosaki dropped you.

“Ouch!”

There was a sword at your throat. On the other end of it, Albino Kurosaki stood with a severely unhappy expression. SHITSHITSHITSHITSHIT. You laid still.

Silence stretched out. Well, except for the broadcast system repeating SHIT over and over again in the background.

“Fine.” Colorful Kurosaki said. He stepped over, kicked Albino Kurosaki in the stomach – he flew several feet away and began snarling, but Colorful Kurosaki ignored him. He stared down at you. You began wondering if he would stab you with his sword. He was close enough you could grab his ankle. But he was wearing socks. He moved his foot back in response to your thoughts.

“My name is Ichigo Kurosaki, and I am a shinigami.”

You stared at him.

“You’re a God?”

“NO, DAMNIT!”

You rolled, grabbed his ankle, and—

~

Opened your eyes. To Kurosaki’s bedroom. Kurosaki opened his eyes a moment later, both of them very brown. He grabbed you just as you began moving—both of you tumbled to the ground. The thump practically shook the house. You wondered if Kurosaki’s family would come running.

“Stop that, I’m not going to hurt you,” Kurosaki whispered.

“Liar.” You whispered back, and then, “Why are we whispering?”

“Because my Dad’s outside and I don’t want him breaking my door again.”

That was reasonable. You opened your mouth, but Kurosaki quickly covered it. He was worried you would scream.

He really wouldn’t hurt you. He just wanted to explain things so you wouldn’t go running out of the house insisting he was a mass-murderer. Albino Kurosaki wanted you to come back, he wasn’t done yet, and Creepy Old Man whacked him on the back of the head.

 _Fine,_ you thought, letting the word echo in Kurosaki’s head. It seemed oddly natural to think at him like this. You would have to investigate this familiarity later (if ever). _Just stop thinking so much, you’re hurting my brain._

Just like that, they all shut up. It was blissful. You could actually hear Kurosaki’s Dad screaming downstairs that he would SAVE HIS WONDERFUL FAMILY FROM THE EARTHQUAKE.

“Your Dad is very protective.” Kurosaki’s hand muffled your words, but he seemed to understand. He finally let you go.

“That’s one way to put it,” he muttered.

The two of you sat up: him easily, you slowly. Your muscles hurt all over from remaining in a fight-or-flight tensed mode. Kurosaki intentionally did not make any sudden movements.

“Okay,” you said, thinking in ten different directions because there was silence in which you could think, and then realizing that so many of your thoughts crammed in your head like this really hurt. “Talk.”

With a great sigh, Kurosaki did just that.

~

Thirty minutes later, you had a migraine.

“I’m not quite sure I understand. You have a demon inside you?”

“No, a Hollow.”

“And a hollow is a spirit that’s become evil?”

“Right.”

“Then what’s the difference? A demon is an evil spirit, and a hollow is an evil spirit.”

“Demons don’t exist.”

Creepy Old Man corrected him, urging him to stay away from such phrases as ‘don’t exist’ and ‘not possible.’

Both of you groaned. _This is too complicated_ , you thought. _I have to worry about demons now?!_ Kurosaki snapped.

“Look, you get I’m not possessed and don’t have multiple personalities or whatever, right?” Kurosaki asked, rubbing his neck. He maintained a mild scowl to try and regain control of the situation, to appear calm and indifferent and cool. His thoughts beat at the sides of your head, furthering your migraine. “And that I don’t want to murder people, right?”

“Remove ‘not possessed’ from that list and… yeah.” You conceded. “I get it.” A marching band had formed and drummed across your mind. It dug its pointy, fancy marching shoes into your brain tissue to emphasize each beat.

“Good, now your turn. Who are you and how did you get in my head?”

You introduced yourself, name first, like Kurosaki had earlier. “I was born a telepath.” As soon as the words left your mouth, you seized up. You slapped your hand over your mouth, your heart racing. Kurosaki’s lips twitched into a smile as he thought about how adorable your expression was right now. You felt your face heating up. You quickly added more. “When we kissed, I fell into your head. Skin contact lets me get in people’s heads.”

Kurosaki’s face reddened. Maybe mentioning the kiss hadn’t been such a great idea. Rather indifferently, given his state of appearance, Kurosaki cleared his throat and asked, “Why did you go there?”

“Because you’re hot, possessed, want to murder people, and were considering committing some kind of demonic sacrificial ceremony with your little sister’s stuffed lion.” Hopefully he didn’t notice that ‘hot’ slip. Not like he’ll remember any of your thoughts while inside his head. Definitely not.

Thankfully, Kurosaki appeared rather preoccupied with other thoughts. His expression shifted through a multitude of emotions – confusion, concern, panic, amusement, bemusement, bewilderment, and then settled back into a scowl. It was a thoroughly displeased scowl.

“Kon.” He growled, the sound rumbling in his chest. He recalled watching Kon interact with you, fucking _kiss_ you, his fists tightening. The warmth in your face quickly began traveling south, and you shifted to try and subdue the sensation. The friction only served to emphasize it. This was a terrible moment to get turned on by things such as jealousy and possessiveness. He was thinking of murdering! Again! “I’m going to murder him.” He backtracked at your expression. “Not actually—” _If ya don’t kill that thing, I will._ “—but he did some things he’s not supposed to.” _We’ll strangle him later. Tie him to the back of the toilet, like Rukia did._

You stared at Kurosaki, trying to keep your eyes from getting too large. With a light cough, you said, “I can hear you.”

Kurosaki didn’t say anything, only clenched his jaw.

 _Okay,_ you thought. _Next question!_ Kurosaki hadn’t explained Kon at all during his strange spiel about being able to leave his body to hunt ghosts. It still didn’t make much sense to you. (Unsurprising, given your telepathy rarely made much sense to you either.)

“So Kon is the other personality—”

“Mod Soul.”

“—inhabiting your body?”

Kurosaki glowered. All his thoughts screamed he DID NOT FUCKING LIKE THAT STUFFED ANIMAL.

“Why’s he a stuffed animal?”

He practically hissed. “Because he stole my body.”

This was getting nowhere fast. “I’m really confused” You said and asked, “How’d that happen?” Kurosaki was too pissed to elaborate. “Okay, well, this explanation stuff was nice.” Time to wrap it up! “Not very useful for our project, and not as nice as that stuff that happened earlier,” you mumbled, fiddling with your shirt sleeve and trying not to follow the erotic thoughts tramping through Albino Kurosaki’s—err, Hollow’s?—head.

“Hey.” You waved a hand in front of Kurosaki. “What’s Hollow’s name?”

“He doesn’t have one.”

“That’s not fair.”

“But… he doesn’t need one!”

“Then what am I supposed to call him?”

“Hollow?”

“How does that differentiate him from all the other demons?”

“Hollows.”

“Well?”

Kurosaki said nothing.

“Right. Ask him his name.” You waved your hand, like this magic hand waving was necessary.

Kurosaki did not ask, but Albino Kurosaki/Hollow could hear you, and answered that _Names are for pussies._ To which, Kurosaki said, aloud, “Horse.”

Albino Kurosaki rioted.

“Stop dicking around, give me a name already. I have a headache. I’m hungry. I need a fucking name.” You snapped. You hadn’t even realized you were hungry until you said that, having been too overcome by the ridiculousness of the rest of your situation.

After some deliberation, the two finally said, “Hichigo.”

“Good enough. Well, it was nice meeting you Hichigo.” You said, nodding, “And it was nice chatting with you, Kurosaki.”

“Ichigo.”

“Whatever. I still need to erase your memories.”

“WHAT?!”

“Yes.”

“FUCKING.” Kurosaki sputtered. “WHAT THE HELL? WHY?!”

“Because you’ll tell people.”

“NO.” Kurosaki’s volume was quickly beginning to irritate you, on account of the ringing in your ears. “I won’t.” He rubbed his neck, his anger vanishing suddenly, and thought. It was that same train of rapid thinking he’d had earlier, when he had begun questioning your knowledge of his ‘King’ nickname. “Look,” he started, the train still going. “You’re not supposed to know about Soul Society.”

“Heaven?”

“No. Just. No.” Kurosaki shook his head. He continued, “And I’m… not supposed to know about your telepathy, right?”

You frowned. He was not about to offer to keep your secret if your kept his.

He was.

“I’m not going to tell anyone about you, but I need you to not tell anybody anything I’ve told you tonight. Not even my family. Not even the stuffed animal. Just… keep acting like you have so far.”

“This isn’t going to work.”

“If you don’t want it to, no fucking shit it won’t.”

“It would be much better if I erased your memories.”

“How can you do that? Even if you did, you’d still remember everything I told you. What, would you erase your own memories?”

“It doesn’t work like that.”

You fiddled with your sleeve some more, and then the other sleeve. Kurosaki watched you fiddle. He didn’t say anything, didn’t think anything, even shushed Hichigo when he started to say something. Creepy Old Man had vanished a while back. Still didn’t understand his name – Zanpack-su-sword-something?

Crickets had begun to chirp. It was late. The sun had set and the sky had become a murky black pool. Kurosaki’s lamp threw light into the room much more effectively than your brother’s lamp did in your living room.

You really liked kissing him earlier, and despite how hard your heart was pounding right now… you couldn’t help but think, _It’s nice not to be so alone in the world anymore._ It was a stupid thought. I mean, you had your brother. You shouldn’t need anyone else! … right?

At least… that’s what Mother had said, when you’d tried to confess to one of your friends in France about your unusual capabilities. Each successive time you’d tried to trust your friends, she’d only say, “ _Not today_.”

“Fine.” You consented. Mother wasn’t here in Japan, and brother wouldn’t say the same things she had. So fuck it. Worst case scenario, you just go on a mind-erasing spree and wind up hospitalized for a few weeks due to overexerting yourself. “But nobody, I mean _nobody_ , knows. And if they do, I’m erasing _everyone’s_ memories.”

“Right.” Kurosaki held out his hand. You shook it.

Suddenly, all your muscles acted like they had died, your arms and legs weak from some imagined run. Kurosaki knew. Kurosaki knew, and hadn’t freaked out. He hadn’t accused you of being a monster. Moreover, he knew, and he wouldn’t tell anyone.

The information was too difficult to process. You decided to store it away for further examination at a later date.

You ignored what appeared to be little golden threads running between your hands and Kurosaki’s hands when you let go. They vanished immediately, and besides, it was probably your imagination.

Kurosaki sighed. Loudly.

“Fuck.” He leaned back, resting his hands behind him and letting his head fall so that his neck was exposed. The muscles looked very appetizing. _Shut up brain, could you just not think sex for five minutes?_ “I’m glad that’s over.”

“We still need to work on our project, and it’s late.”

“It’s only nine.”

“I’m normally home by _six_. This is late.”

“Did you call your brother?”

“I texted him.”

“Hmph. I’m hungry.”

Your stomach gurgled its agreement.

“Yuzu is probably done cooking dinner,” he added.

Kurosaki pulled himself together, standing up and stretching mightily. His shirt lifted enough that you could see his stomach and the insane abs he had. _Ugh._ Stupid hot guys being attractive. You looked away before Kurosaki could catch you staring. He held out a hand to help you up.

After a moment’s hesitation, in which you thought about all the horrible ways letting him remember all this could go and how much shit you might’ve gotten yourself into and about how damnit he really was possessed even if he just called it an “unfriendly ghost” and why did he have to be so attractive on top of that and why oh _why_ did he have to be attracted to you I mean this would’ve been so much easier to sever if he wasn’t—you accepted the hand. He helped you up.

When he opened his bedroom door, his father and Yuzu tumbled through.

Kurosaki scowled.

“What the fuck?! Were you spying on me?! This is why I can’t have classmates over! You guys creep them out!!”

You may’ve survived Kurosaki’s mind city, but you may not survive dinner.

~

Outside the Kurosaki residence, three cats sat atop the property’s wall. One gazed up the street, one gazed down the street, and one gazed at the house. Two more joined the three cats, creating a collage of black, beige, orange, white, and striped colors. They sat little more than a whisker’s hair apart, all alert, all awake. A passerby might think they were beginning a cat colony, or a new cat island in the neighborhood. But neither of these were true.

They were on duty.

~

Your brother peered out the living room window at the man talking to stray cats in the parking lot. He didn’t know how to break this news to you – so he decided he just wouldn’t. You didn’t need to know about Dad. Problem solved!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Question: How did the conflict resolution of Kurosaki and reader trading secrets feel to you? Smooth? Sudden? Jarring? Like the strangely common round-table discussions frequently had in the anime/manga? (Because they do have a ridiculous amount of "let's all sit around the table and talk about things!" scenes.)


	24. (F) Chapter 12: Upside Down And Inside Out

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: I bring to you—a super long chapter! Sorry for the delay, but I’ve burned through my buffer zone and kind of stupidly been working on several other stories instead.
> 
> female-reader perspective

To say Isshin was concerned would be the understatement of the year. His wonderful son’s reiatsu spiked through the roof, leaving the unstoppable superhuman father nearly immobile—but Isshin prevailed! He raced up the stairs and slammed into Ichigo’s door.

_Ha! A measly lock cannot stop a father from saving his son!_

Isshin kicked the door down and rushed inside—only to be smacked in the face by his unkind, entirely selfish offspring! The horror!

He had barely a moment to see his newly adopted daughter staring eerily into the distance.

Isshin flew back out the room, down the stairs, and tumbled to a stop just a foot away from the front doors.

_It’s good to know… I’ve trained him so well~…_

Isshin cried tears of joy. Masaki would be so proud!

But really, that reiatsu was an issue. Perhaps it was time to get in touch with the old guard and volunteer Ichigo for their rigorous training methods?

~

“Mother, I don’t want to do this,” Seven-year-old you declared, wringing your hands and twitching your fingers. “What if I mess up?”

“You won’t mess up, you’re good at this. You're a good girl.”

“What if I break him?”

“Then you fix him.” Mother’s tone was even, undisturbed. The calm of the ocean that has never seen a storm, and never will. Mother did not tolerate storms.

“What if I can’t?”

“Then we bury him.” Mother’s answer was resolute. The solution to all problems. “It’s a very simple procedure. Just go in, and change his mind.”

She held the door open for you. You looked at her, really looked at those unmoving eyes. You felt yourself vanishing inside them with how they suctioned all the light out of the room. You would become a statue, just like Mother. Resolute.

You went inside.

For this, skin contact would be essential. It was what enabled you to slip inside a mind, as though you always belonged there.

~

You did not slip inside Kurosaki’s mind. You crash landed.

A clear sky floated above without a single cloud in sight. The sunshine warmed the glass underneath your bare feet. Where your socks had gone, you did not know—and honestly, you didn’t care. These were tiny details.

Bigger details that demanded all of your focus included lips. Warm lips brushed lightly against your own while cold lips teased the corners of your mouth. The contrasting sensation brought to mind ice cream melting between your fingers on a hot day. You twitched said fingers, resting one hand against his forearm. The muscles underneath jumped—you bet he was flexing them intentionally to turn you on, _and damn it_ , was it working. You dug your fingers in protest but burning hands gripped your waist, wrapping around the curve of your back, and pulling you flush against a very well defined body that just begged you to melt into him. It was extremely tempting and— _fuck whatever your brain was saying_.

You melted.

Resting your hands against his chest, you trailed them up and around his neck, tracing the firm muscles that kept twitching, until you were hugging him. If you tilted your head just so, _oh_ , did his lips skim yours nicely. A heat began to coil in the pit of your stomach, coaxed further by the cold hands trailing down your sides. One hand slid just underneath your waistband and the other trailed back up the front of your shirt to massage your breasts. _Oh_ , your brain short-circuited, whatever thought was to come next forever lost in the sensational overload.

The cold lips moved to nip at your jaw, nip a line down your neck with sharp teeth. The warm lips insisted on more, on nibbling at your lower lip and on exploring the various crevices inside your mouth. You tried to ground yourself on the differing directions by digging your fingers into his skin, but his body felt and moved differently. One had more fabric across the chest, the other had a gap that let you make skin contact—although, the skin contact you made was extremely fucking _cold. I was here for something._ You couldn’t remember what, so it must not be important. The hand just underneath your waistband wiggled closer, distracting you from the freezing temperatures. The warm lips dragged against your lower lip, and you moaned.

This went on for a while. Too short of a while.

A sound echoed in the distance. It grew louder as it grew closer. First, you thought it was a train. Then, a plane. Then, a banshee summoning its siblings to war. That’s about when you opened your eyes.

You were kissing Albino Kurosaki. You were inside the city.

His hand was partially down your uniform’s skirt.

_FUCK_

This was a problem—not the hand, or the kissing, well maybe the kissing but it felt so nice—

Colorful Kurosaki appeared behind him, wielding a sword and swinging it down—

Albino Kurosaki caught it with his hand, a grin slanted across his features and his blue tongue darting out to lick his lips. Blood dripped down his arm. The sight was disturbingly erotic. You lost your breath. His free hand held onto you, tugging you closer for another breathtaking kiss—

“STOP THAT!” Colorful Kurosaki smacked him with the blunt side of his sword. Albino Kurosaki flew to the left.

That sword was huge.

You were going to die.

 _This_ was the problem.

‘ _Can’t we just go back to kissing? That was nice.’_ You wanted to say, but thought instead, and like all other terrible mind-invasions, your thoughts projected loudly on some kind of hidden speaker system.

Colorful Kurosaki blushed, the redness traveling all the way down his neck and making you wonder _just_ exactly how far it went—and that thought, too, broadcasted _damnitfuckshit_. Albino Kurosaki laughed.

 _What a dick_ , you thought.

Albino Kurosaki stopped laughing. “Hey now, if it weren’t for me, y’never would’a kissed!” He smirked suddenly, his teeth flashing in a far too appealing manner. The lewd expression, and the way his eyes traced your body, spoke volumes of just _what_ exactly he could do for you. You shivered. Before he could say more, Colorful Kurosaki was in his face, screaming murder and wielding a sword.

Okay, well, this is your magical chance. They’re distracted and you can, just, y’know, GET THE FUCK OUT OF HERE.

Too bad your legs aren’t cooperating. You looked down to inspect why, because they felt fine, and found yourself standing on the side of a building. How did it take this long to realize the city was sideways and you could FALL?!

Right. Kissing.

You took a nice minute to daydream about that kissing, recalling the way hot and cold fingers traced your skin, and shivered again. _Really_ hard not to try to just go back to that. Colorful and Albino Kurosaki flew by in front of you, a tornado of flashing lights and chaotic noises. They crashed into another building. The building went down.

That would be you in the next two minutes if you DIDN’T FUCKING MOVE, NOW DAMNIT!

Your legs finally worked, adrenaline pumping and whatnot, and you turned about to run away – _where?_ You didn’t know, but if you got to a spot where you could pull open a door – _wait_.

You were inside Ichigo Kurosaki’s mind. This was the perfect chance to discover who was the real Kurosaki and put them in charge – or better! Convince him to _not_ stab people with his mighty pointy death sword!

And then you could go back to kissing. You grinned, pleased with your thoughts. This way, you’d get the best of both worlds: psychotic headache-inducing Kurosaki and no blood bath. _You’re an idiot,_ brain pointed out. _Shut up_ , you told yourself.

“What the fuck do you mean the real Kurosaki?!”

Too bad all your thoughts were broadcasting.

You started to run. Inside someone else’s head, it’s important to not think and just _do_. So you clapped your hands – because you couldn’t snap, and clapping created a very distracting sound in a person’s mind, giving you a magical moment in which you could order, “Door to all doors!” to pop up. A metal door did so, rather nicely, for you and appeared a few inches above the ground. The doorknob was just within reach. Opening the door, you ran inside, and shut it.

Now you just needed to find the door to the core of Kurosaki’s mind, where either the real Kurosaki would theoretically be (ideally not), or you could convince him to not murder people (ideally). You have great priorities. (Not.) This shouldn’t be too hard.

The hallway you were in extended endlessly, with over a bazillion shut metal doors along the way. Shadows clung to every tiny crevice, darkening the hallway into something of a nightmarish sort.

What had you gotten yourself into?

~

“How the fuck did she do that?”

“Huh, so tha’s how ya get them to appear.”

“HOLLOW! HOW THE FUCK DID SHE DO THAT?!”

“LIKE HELL I KNOW!”

“THIS IS ALL YOUR FAULT! I’M GONNA MURDER YOU!”

“I’d like t’see ya try ya fuckin’ pansy weakling!”

Screaming, they flew at each other again. Their swords clanged.

~

Doordoordoordoordoordoordoor. You needed to find the right door and so far all you found were DEAD BODIES SHIIIIIIIIIT. Some of them even still moved!! You opened another door, hoping, praying, for some kind of bright light. The door revealed fire and a giant muscled pirate with shark teeth and pointy hair. He grinned, not unlike Albino Kurosaki but certainly more frightfully, and fucking flew—damn their flying capabilities!!—through the door, sword first. DAMN THEIR SWORDS.

You ran down the hallway, ripped open another door, saw sky, and jumped through.

Now you were falling to your death. _How is this any better?_ The flying pirate shark man jumped after you, laughing manically. You clapped your hands and said, “Swimming pool!” One appeared below you—okay, good, you wouldn’t crash into a building and die anymore. You’d just drown because FUCKING IDIOT YOU CAN’T SWIM. You clapped your hands again and said, “Real Kurosaki!” But of course that didn’t help. That’s not how minds work. Instead another creepy guy appeared, one that had a really long beard and a body that dissolved into a shadow.

You hit the pool.

Let it be known—hitting water _hurts_.

~

“Is she dyin’?”

“WHAT THE FUCK KIND OF QUESTION IS THAT?”

He sneered at him, his lip curling in disgust. “Can she _swim_ dumbass?”

His idiot King, didn’t even deserve the title the fucking shithead, froze. Like a deer. If this was what he did outside of their head, then it was no wonder the King constantly needed the help of his horse. He began walking towards the pool to grab her, but that stupid Kenpachi-replica that sometimes ran around in their heads surged out first. He reacted without thought – the way you’re _supposed_ to: instinctually. He severed Kenpachi’s head. The body fell back into the pool and the water turned red.

Heh. Nice.

Stupid King finally ran forward, jumped in the pool, and jumped out with the girl. She looked like a drowned cat, all wet with clothes sticking to her. He followed the shape of her body several times, tracing the gold strands of light coursing underneath. He needed it. Now.

~

You gasped in great hunks of beautiful sweet never-ending oxygen—HOLYSHITYOUALMOSTDROWNED! You were hyperventilating. You knew this because, no matter how much you breathed in, it just felt like no oxygen was getting inside of you.

Looking up, you found Colorful Kurosaki – who was still holding you bridal-style – breathing very visibly.

“In,” he said, and breathed slowly. You closed your mouth and stopped breathing entirely. “Out,” he said, and breathed out slowly. You mimicked him. He repeated three more times, you copying him, until breathing felt natural again.

His arms were really freaking strong. They felt like steel and _damn_ was that hot.

Colorful Kurosaki began blushing again. In the next instance, Albino Kurosaki was holding you. You just blinked and it happened. Your head began to spin.

“Put the girl down, Hollow.” Creepy Old Guy was back.

You stared at him. _He couldn’t be…?_

“Are you Real Kurosaki?”

They all stared at you.

“What the FUCK do you mean?”

“Ya’ said ya’d put the real Kurosaki in charge?”

Albino Kurosaki stared down at you intensely, and I mean _intensely._ His gold eyes were quite bright, shining like cat eyes in the dark. _Is Kurosaki secretly possessed **and** has multiple personality disorder? Shiiiiiit why do I have to pick the insane guys?!_

“I don’t fucking have multiple personality disorder!!” Colorful Kurosaki yelled, only to be ignored.

“Are you the Real Kurosaki?”

Albino Kurosaki grinned slowly, “I can be.”

Nope, he definitely wasn’t. Definitely. Was. Not. And besides, if he was in charge, there would be lots of blood. You could see it already. You almost vomited. There was only one thing do to: change their mind on the issue of homicide. You began wiggling wildly, insistent on being set down. With the hold Albino Kurosaki had on you, that would not be happening any time soon.

“Ichigo, I believe it’s time you explained things to this poor girl.” Creepy Old Man intoned.

“What the fuck do you mean? You heard Urahara, I can’t tell more people!”

You had it. The solution. Their discussion made you think of it—just erase their memory of you.

Albino Kurosaki dropped you.

“Ouch!”

There was a sword at your throat. On the other end of it, Albino Kurosaki stood with a severely unhappy expression. SHITSHITSHITSHITSHIT. You laid still.

Silence stretched out. Well, except for the broadcast system repeating SHIT over and over again in the background.

“Fine.” Colorful Kurosaki said. He stepped over, kicked Albino Kurosaki in the stomach – he flew several feet away and began snarling, but Colorful Kurosaki ignored him. He stared down at you. You began wondering if he would stab you with his sword. He was close enough you could grab his ankle. But he was wearing socks. He moved his foot back a bit in response to your thoughts.

“My name is Ichigo Kurosaki, and I am a shinigami.”

You stared at him.

“You’re God?”

“NO, DAMNIT!”

You rolled, grabbed his ankle, and—

~

Opened your eyes. To Kurosaki’s bedroom. Kurosaki opened his eyes a moment later, both of them very brown. He grabbed you just as you began moving—both of you tumbled to the ground. The thump practically shook the house. You wondered if Kurosaki’s family would come running.

“Stop that, I’m not going to hurt you,” Kurosaki whispered.

“Liar.” You whispered back, and then, “Why are we whispering?”

“Because my Dad’s outside and I don’t want him breaking my door again.”

That was reasonable. You opened your mouth, but Kurosaki quickly covered it. He was worried you would scream.

He really wouldn’t hurt you. He just wanted to explain things so you wouldn’t go running out of the house screaming murder. Albino Kurosaki wanted you to come back, he wasn’t done yet, and Creepy Old Man whacked him on the back of the head.

 _Fine,_ you thought, letting the word echo in Kurosaki’s head. It seemed oddly natural to think at him like this. You would have to investigate this familiarity later (if ever). _Just stop thinking so much, you’re hurting my brain._

Just like that, they all shut up. It was blissful. You could actually hear Kurosaki’s Dad screaming downstairs that he would SAVE HIS WONDERFUL NEW DAUGHTER.

“Your Dad is very sweet.” Kurosaki’s hand muffled your words, but he seemed to understand. He shook his head and finally let you go.

“I wouldn’t use that word.”

The two of you sat up: him easily, you slowly. Your muscles hurt all over from remaining in a fight-or-flight tensed mode. Kurosaki intentionally did not make any sudden movements.

“Okay,” you said, thinking in ten different directions because there was silence in which you could think, and then realizing that so many of your thoughts crammed in your head like this really hurt. “Talk.”

With a great sigh, Kurosaki did just that.

~

Thirty minutes later, you had a migraine.

“I’m not quite sure I understand. You have a demon inside you?”

“No, a Hollow.”

“And a hollow is a spirit that’s become evil?”

“Right.”

“Then what’s the difference? A demon is an evil spirit, and a hollow is an evil spirit.”

“Demons don’t exist.”

Creepy Old Man corrected him, urging him to stay away from such phrases as ‘don’t exist’ and ‘not possible.’

Both of you groaned. _This is too complicated_ , you thought. _I fucking have to worry about demons now?!_ Kurosaki snapped.

“Look, you get I’m not possessed and don’t have multiple personalities or whatever, right?” Kurosaki asked, rubbing his neck. He maintained a mild scowl to try and regain control of the situation, to appear calm and indifferent and cool. His thoughts beat at the sides of your head, furthering your migraine. “And that I don’t want to murder people, right?”

“Remove ‘not possessed’ from that list and… yeah.” You conceded. “I get it.” A marching band had formed and drummed across your mind. It dug its pointy, fancy marching shoes into your brain tissue to emphasize each beat.

“Good, now your turn. Who are you and how did you get in my head?”

You introduced yourself, name first, like Kurosaki had earlier. “I was born a telepath.” As soon as the words left your mouth, you seized up. You slapped your hand over your mouth, panicking. Kurosaki’s lips twitched into a smile as he thought about how adorable your expression was right now. You felt your face heating up. You quickly added more. “When we kissed, I fell into your head. Skin contact lets me get in people’s heads.”

Kurosaki’s face reddened. Maybe mentioning the kiss hadn’t been such a great idea. Rather indifferently, given his state of appearance, Kurosaki cleared his throat and asked, “Why did you go there?”

“Because you’re hot, possessed, want to murder people, and were considering committing some kind of demonic sacrificial ceremony with your little sister’s stuffed lion.” Hopefully he didn’t notice that ‘hot’ slip. Totally not like he’ll remember any of your thoughts while inside his head. Totally.

Thankfully, Kurosaki appeared rather preoccupied with other thoughts. His expression shifted through a multitude of emotions – confusion, concern, panic, amusement, bemusement, bewilderment, and then settled back into a scowl. It was a thoroughly displeased scowl.

“Kon.” He growled, the sound rumbling in his chest. He recalled watching Kon interact with you, _flirt_ with you, his fists tightening. The warmth in your face quickly began traveling south, and you shifted to try and subdue the sensation. The friction only served to emphasize it. This was a terrible moment to get turned on by silly things such as jealousy and possessiveness. He was thinking of murdering! Again! “I’m going to murder him.” He backtracked at your expression. “Not actually—” _If ya don’t kill that thing, I will._ “—but he did some things he’s not supposed to.” _We’ll strangle him later. Tie him to the back of the toilet, like Rukia did._

You stared at Kurosaki, trying to keep your eyes from getting too large. With a light cough, you said, “I can hear you.”

Kurosaki didn’t say anything, only clenched his jaw.

 _Okay,_ you thought. _Next question!_ Kurosaki hadn’t explained Kon at all during his strange spiel about being able to leave his body to hunt ghosts. It still didn’t make much sense to you. (Unsurprising, given your telepathy rarely made much sense to you either.)

“So Kon is the other personality—”

“Mod Soul.”

“—inhabiting your body?”

Kurosaki glowered. All his thoughts screamed he DID NOT FUCKING LIKE THAT STUFFED ANIMAL.

“Why’s he a stuffed animal?”

He practically hissed. “Because he stole my body.”

This was getting nowhere fast. “I’m really confused…” You said, trailing off to let him elaborate. But Kurosaki was too pissed to elaborate. “Okay, well, this explanation stuff was nice.” Time to wrap it up! “Not very useful for our project, and not as nice as that stuff that happened earlier,” you mumbled, fiddling with your shirt sleeve and trying not to follow the erotic thoughts tramping through Albino Kurosaki’s—err, Hollow’s?—head.

“Hey.” You waved a hand in front of Kurosaki, halting his murder fantasy. “What’s Hollow’s name?”

“He doesn’t have one.”

“That’s not fair.”

“But… he doesn’t need one!”

“Then what am I supposed to call him?”

“Hollow?”

“How does that differentiate him from all the other demons?”

“Hollows.”

“Well?”

Kurosaki said nothing.

“Right. Ask him his name.” You waved your hand, like this magic hand waving was necessary.

Kurosaki did not ask, but Albino Kurosaki/Hollow could hear you, and answered that _Names are for pussies._ To which, Kurosaki said, aloud, “Horse.”

Albino Kurosaki rioted.

“Stop dicking around, give me a name already. I have a headache. I’m hungry. I need a fucking name.” You snapped, annoyance boiling hard and fast. You hadn’t even realized you were hungry until you said that, having been too overcome by the ridiculousness of the rest of your situation. You did not want to sit through another warzone.

After some deliberation, the two finally said, “Hichigo.”

“Good enough. Well, it was nice meeting you Hichigo.” You said, nodding, “And it was nice chatting with you, Kurosaki.”

“Ichigo.”

“Whatever. I still need to erase your memories.”

“WHAT?!”

“Yes.”

“FUCKING.” Kurosaki sputtered. “WHAT THE HELL? WHY?!”

“Because you’ll tell people otherwise.”

“NO.” Kurosaki’s volume was quickly beginning to irritate you, on account of the ringing in your ears. “I won’t.” He rubbed his neck, his anger vanishing suddenly, and thought. It was that same train of rapid thinking he’d had earlier, when he had begun questioning your knowledge of his ‘King’ nickname. “Look,” he started, the train still going. “You’re not supposed to know about Soul Society.”

“Heaven?”

“No. Just. No.” Kurosaki shook his head. He continued, “And I’m… not supposed to know about your telepathy, right?”

Your staring hardened. He was not about to offer to keep your secret if your kept his.

He was.

“I’m not going to tell anyone about you, but I need you to not tell anybody anything I’ve told you tonight. Not even my family. Not even the stuffed animal. Just… keep acting like you have so far.”

“This isn’t going to work.”

“If you don’t want it to, no fucking shit it won’t.”

“It would be much better if I erased your memories.”

“How can you do that? Even if you did, you’d still remember everything I told you. What, would you erase your own memories?”

“It doesn’t work like that.”

You fiddled with your sleeve some more, and then the other sleeve. Kurosaki watched you fiddle. He didn’t say anything, didn’t think anything, even shushed Hichigo when he started to say something. Creepy Old Man had vanished a while back. Still didn’t understand his name – Zanpack-su-sword-something?

Crickets had begun to chirp. It was late. The sun had set and the sky had become a murky black pool. Kurosaki’s lamp threw light into the room much more effectively than your brother’s lamp did in your living room.

You really liked kissing him earlier, and despite how hard your heart was pounding right now… you couldn’t help but think, _It’s nice not to be so alone in the world anymore._ It was a stupid thought. I mean, you had your brother. You shouldn’t need anyone else! … right?

At least… that’s what Mother had said, when you’d tried to confess to one of your friends in France about your unusual capabilities. Each successive time you’d tried to trust your friends, she’d only say, “ _Not today_.”

“Fine.” You consented. Mother wasn’t here in Japan, and brother wouldn’t say the same things she had. So fuck it. Worst case scenario, you just go on a mind-erasing spree and wind up hospitalized for a few weeks due to overexerting yourself. “But nobody, I mean _nobody_ , knows. And if they do, I’m erasing EVERYONE’S memories.”

“Right.” Kurosaki held out his hand. You two shook.

Suddenly, all your muscles acted like they had died, your arms and legs weak from some imagined run. Kurosaki knew. Kurosaki knew, and hadn’t freaked out. He hadn’t accused you of being a freak of nature. Moreover, he knew, and he wouldn’t tell anyone.

The information was too difficult to process. You decided to store it away for further examination at a later date.

You ignored what appeared to be little golden threads running between your hands and Kurosaki’s hands when you let go. They vanished immediately, and besides, it was probably your imagination.

Kurosaki sighed. Loudly.

“Fuck.” He leaned back, resting his hands behind him and letting his head fall so that his neck was exposed. The muscles looked very appetizing. _Shut up brain, could you just not think sex for five minutes?_ “I’m glad that’s over.”

“We still need to work on our project, and it’s late.”

“It’s only nine.”

“I’m normally home by _six_. This is late.”

“Did you call your brother?”

“I texted him.”

“Hmph. I’m hungry.”

Your stomach gurgled its agreement.

“Yuzu is probably done cooking dinner,” he added.

Kurosaki pulled himself together, standing up and stretching mightily. His shirt lifted enough that you could see his stomach and the insane abs he had. _Ugh._ Stupid hot guys being attractive. You looked away before Kurosaki could catch you staring. He held out a hand to help you up.

After a moment’s hesitation, in which you thought about all the horrible ways letting him remember all this could go and how much shit you might’ve gotten yourself into and about how damnit he really was possessed even if he just called it an “unfriendly ghost” and why did he have to be so attractive on top of that and why oh _why_ did he have to be attracted to you I mean this would’ve been so much easier to sever if he wasn’t—you accepted the hand. He helped you up.

When he opened his bedroom door, his father and Yuzu tumbled through.

Kurosaki scowled.

“What the fuck?! Were you spying on me?! This is why I can’t have classmates over! You guys creep them out!!”

You may’ve survived Kurosaki’s mind city, but you may not survive dinner.

~

Outside the Kurosaki residence, three cats sat atop the property’s wall. One gazed up the street, one gazed down the street, and one gazed at the house. Two more joined the three cats, creating a collage of black, beige, orange, white, and striped colors. They sat little more than a whisker’s hair apart, all alert, all awake. A passerby might think they were beginning a cat colony, or a new cat island in the neighborhood. But neither of these were true.

They were on duty.

~

Your brother peered out the living room window at the man talking to stray cats in the parking lot. He didn’t know how to break this news to you – so he decided he just wouldn’t. You didn’t need to know about Dad. Problem solved!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Question: How did the conflict resolution of Kurosaki and reader trading secrets feel to you? Smooth? Sudden? Jarring? Like the strangely common round-table discussions frequently had in the anime/manga? (Because they do have a ridiculous amount of "let's all sit around the table and talk about things!" scenes.)


	25. (M) Chapter 13: Paranoid

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> male-reader perspective

Dinner was awkward.

Not because of Isshin’s unending questions about how you and Kurosaki became best friends, when he saved your life, and if you would be kind enough to swear a life-long oath to protect his daughters, or because of Karin’s flirtatious comments and shy glances, or because of Yuzu’s flowering concern over if the food tasted over-seasoned or under-seasoned or too spicy or not spicy at all and if Karin was being weird and their Papa being overzealous—

Nope. None of that.

It was because of Kurosaki. Albino Kurosaki. _Hichigo._ You reminded yourself for the hundredth time, and tried _gods did you try_ not to squirm or fidget _because the friction was not helping_ and not to pay any attention at all to the erotic vignettes Hichigo kept projecting.

It wasn’t working. It had taken Hichigo – what, two minutes? Not even that, to realize that if you could think words at them and could hear their thoughts without trying – _trying and failing so hard to block them out –_ well, then, the conclusions were obvious. Hichigo could just think suggestive thoughts at you. And he wasn’t the least bit concerned about if you were interested or not because, well, he also had a good memory of what happened not even ten minutes ago. In their head. Which he kept replaying – but with a longer… more detailed… more _fruitful_ timeline.

Cold, pale hands traced each bone along your ribcage with feather light touches. The lightness of each touch made the coldness of Hichigo’s fingers stand out more but in a refreshing manner, like stepping outside into the winter air after having run a thousand miles. The hands continued down to your abdomen, where nails began to scrap lightly in place of cold fingertips. You didn’t know you were shivering in your seat until Isshin worried that the house temperature was “too cold for honored guests.”

Kurosaki said something along the lines of you weren’t an ' _honored_ guest,' to which Isshin took great offense. You didn’t hear them. Hichigo’s tongue had replaced his fingers, and now he was licking slow, too-hot circles along your hipbone.

 _When did you undress me?_ You thought hazily, fingering the fabric of your shirt and contemplating Hichigo’s logic—or lack of it, in these fantasies. The blueness of his tongue stood out starkly against your skin. It was odd how blue it appeared, given how hot his tongue felt. Blue usually represented coldness…

 _S’not a fantasy if it’s really happening,_ Hichigo answered, his breath ghosting against your skin and chilling the areas he’d licked. He continued down until he was just millimeters away from where you wanted it most. You tried wiggling closer with a whine but he just gripped your hips and held you firmly in place.

This was too much. It was too slow. It wasn’t enough. You needed more—

You crushed the broccoli with the flat side of your fork, trying to escape the heady environment. From his spot beside you, Kurosaki valiantly kept his eyes closed. It looked like the food he ate was too spicy, what with his face being extremely red.

“Oh, big brother! I made the food too spicy! I just knew it!” Yuzu wailed. “Don’t hurt yourself big brother!”

“Quit it, Yuzu. He’s just being a pansy ass.”

“Karin! Don’t be so mean to our brother!”

“Ichigo you bastard! Look at how your selfishness is making my wonderful daughters fight!”

“Damnit old man if you don’t stop rubbing your foot in my face—” The threat came a breath too late. Kurosaki flipped Isshin over the half-wall separating the dining room and kitchen, and onto the kitchen island. Despite the loud screaming, Isshin seemed fine.

Mostly.

You brushed your crumbled broccoli to the side of your plate. When Kurosaki – and everyone else – wasn’t looking, you quietly slid your plate closer to Kurosaki’s and shoved the ruined broccoli soldiers the rest of the way onto his plate. You resumed your attack on the rice, making small mounds and rolling the meat into the valleys. The carrots looked to be at war with the rest of your food, what with the way they pointed.

“That’s so cool looking!” Karin giggled. Her laugh cut short. Without looking at her, you could tell she’d clapped a hand over her mouth from her berating thoughts to ‘ _be less girly! Quit fawning over him!’_

“Oh, wonderful! You’re coming up with battle strategies to protect my daughters! Ichigo, you should take a page from your friend’s book!” Isshin laughed heartily, resurrecting himself and magically appearing at your elbow. He attempted to clap you on the back—but Kurosaki tripped him. He fell and rolled under the table, popped up on the other side, and began ranting about the woes of being a single father and how Masaki would not stand for this disrespect!

A tick mark appeared on Kurosaki’s forehead. You figured Hichigo’s laughter wasn’t helping. At least he wasn’t thinking anything erotic right now, being too busy enjoying Kurosaki’s misery. Their relationship reminded you of siblings that couldn’t get along. _Thank goodness brother and I aren’t like that_ , you thought. You wouldn’t know what to do if the two of you were like that. He was the only person you could trust. Kurosaki stood up— _I’m gonna kill that old man!_ —his hands coming up under the table to flip it—

“Kurosaki?” you asked, pointing at his plate. It was magically full of crushed broccoli, and yours—empty. “Would you like to finish that in your room? It’s getting late, and we need to wrap up our project.”

“How did…?” Karin whispered.

“Oh, you liked my food?” Yuzu squealed.

“I loved it,” you answered. “It was seasoned to perfection.” Because honestly it was, you just weren’t in the mood for broccoli.

“No, I’m done. Let’s go.” Kurosaki announced. He promptly dragged you away, leaving Karin sputtering, Yuzu glowing, and Isshin bemoaning Ichigo’s disrespectful behavior and his failure as a father to be there for his son.

You moved so you were several steps ahead of Kurosaki quite suddenly, scurrying into his room and burrowing yourself in paperwork. You didn’t need to hear Isshin speak anymore. He’d said enough to last a lifetime, enough that your eyes wouldn’t stop prickling. If your father was still around, if you’d lived with him instead of mother…

You clenched your jaw and tried to recall whatever you and Not-Kurosaki had settled on for a project topic, instead of all the time you missed out on with your own deceased dad.

Kurosaki closed and locked the door.

“Hey, are you alrig—”

“I think we picked zoo animals.”

“What?”

“Not-Kurosaki and I, when you were… gone?” You were still confused by this. “We picked studying zoo animals and determining if their quality of life was improved or worsened by varying degrees of human contact.”

Kurosaki settled into his desk chair. You remained on the floor beside his bed. This was a nice, safe distance. No pointy death swords were long enough to reach you from here. _Stop that, he already agreed not to kill you._ You lectured yourself, _And he’s got a psychopath inhabiting his body, so he could change his mind on the drop of a dime._

You could hear Isshin loudly lamenting his woes beyond the locked door. Kurosaki opened the door to smash another foot in Isshin’s face, sending him tumbling back down the stairs.

“You have a very violent relationship.” You commented. Kurosaki grunted.

“Do you want to study zoo animals?”

“Not really.”

“What do you want to study?”

“Zombies.”

Kurosaki stared. _Zombies? Seriously?! First Grim Reapers and then zombies. I can’t help with zombies!!_ Hichigo laughed in the background. _Quit it Hollow! This isn’t funny!_ When he wouldn’t stop laughing, Kurosaki took a closer look at you. The moment when he realized you were joking, you could see it in the relief on his face.

“I thought you were serious for a moment there.”

“I know.”

“Stop reading my mind!”

“Stop screaming so loudly!”

The air became too thick to breath. What was supposed to be a pleasant evening of working on a project had become far too convoluted—he knew your secret. You were trapped in a room above a family-clinic with a possessed ghost hunter interested in screwing your brains out.

An idea smacked you in the head. It hurt wonderfully.

“You like fighting, right?”

“What? No!”

“But you do it all the time, and your possessed demon—I mean.” Kurosaki gave you a withering look. “Hichigo.” You amended, and quickly moved on, using wild arm movements and gestures to distract from blabbering your confusion out loud. “He likes fighting too. Both of you do it all the time in the city with the sideways sky. And you do it with your father as well!”

“I do it to protect people.” _I do it to protect my precious ones_. A series of faces flashed through Kurosaki’s mind, a flood threatening to transform into a tsunami of all the broken, bloody, endangered, harmed people that couldn’t be protected. It suffocated you.

“Okay,” you gasped. “I get it. Fighting protects people. Isn’t that the concept of martial arts? Self-defense? So then, hear me out,” you held up your hand to stop Kurosaki from speaking, from thinking more on that swelling tsunami, “How about we study how martial arts has transformed inside of and outside of literature over the years?”

“Okay.”

“Okay?”

“Yeah, okay.”

“You’re not even going to question it?”

“Why? It’s a solid idea. It combines something I enjoy with something you enjoy. Okay.”

“Ugh.” You fell over, flattening yourself across the floor. Kurosaki’s tsunami had vanished as suddenly as it had appeared. The air felt light again, easy to breath, and no longer crackled hotly. Kurosaki leaned back in his chair, letting it tip precariously.

“What’s wrong? You want me to argue with you?” He scowled, as per normal, but in a very mild manner. He wanted to seem cool. He _really_ wanted to seem cool. You had a nice butt.

“Stop that.”

“What?”

“Nothing,” you mumbled, and tried not to wiggle your butt. How could a compliment be both pleasing and embarrassing? You told yourself to stop cruising through Kurosaki’s thoughts. _Practice blocking them out. If you can accomplish this, then you can accomplish anything,_ you told yourself. The pep-talk wasn’t very motivating, what with Hichigo thinking about—

 _Hollow,_ Kurosaki growled.

 _Shhh,_ Hichigo swatted him away. _I ain’t like you King, I’m enjoying my instincts._

“We should interview martial artists,” you said.

Kurosaki grunted. He agreed with a small part of his mind, the majority of his thoughts locked in combat with Hichigo and in assessing the usefulness of fantasying about butts.

“Dead ones,” you added. Kurosaki grunted again. He was paying significantly less attention to your words with each passing second. “As in, we should interview some of your ghost friends. You have those, right?”

Kurosaki grunted additional agreement. You finally looked up at him, smiling.

“I’m glad we agree.”

“Wait—what?”

“On interviewing.”

“Oh, yeah. Great.”

“The dead.”

“No—SHIT!” Kurosaki’s chair tipped over the rest of the way. It clattered onto the floor as Kurosaki did weird acrobatic maneuvers to vault to safety. His muscles flexed with the demonstration, and for a moment, you could see his well-defined abs again.

 _Why is it all the hot guys are insane?_ You looked away to keep from staring.

“No!” Kurosaki repeated.

“I heard you the first time, no need to yell.” You rubbed your ears unhappily.

Kurosaki sighed. He ruffled his hair with both hands. He put his chair back in place. He sat in it. He stood back up. You watched all of this antsy movement with one eyebrow raised. Finally, he sat down next to you on the floor.

Your safety distance was officially destroyed.

“Look, part of you knowing about Soul Society is that you can’t – and I really mean this – you can _not_ tell anyone.”

“I know.”

“And I can’t get you involved with ghosts.”

“I get it.”

Kurosaki stared at you, all his muscles tensed to the point that you could see them straining to remain beneath his skin. How did he even get so muscular? “Do you really?”

“Yeah. No interviewing famous dead martial artists or any really old ghosts that can beat the crap out of you.”

“They can’t beat the crap out of me,” Kurosaki puffed up his chest. Oh really? He was doing this now? Showing off for you? “I’m stronger than all of them.”

“Right.” You hummed, not actually agreeing. Kurosaki scowled at you – not actually angry, but more urging you to go along with his charade. You shoved him playfully. For the briefest second – he grinned.

It made you forget your next question.

Looking away quickly, you racked your brain for that missing question. Martial artists, dead people, stuff. Stuff. Stuff! Right!

“We should still interview someone – how about your Dad?”

“We can interview dead people.” Kurosaki announced suddenly, his expression flat. _No way in hell I’m letting that old man mess with our project._

“What? You just said—”

“I changed my mind. You come up with the list of questions, and I’ll ask them.”

You looked stupid right now, you just knew it, with your jaw hanging open and your eyebrows rising up to your hairline. Kurosaki found it adorable. Hichigo wondered how well you could swallow.

And you closed your mouth. _Pervert_ , you thought at Hichigo, which only made the bastard smirk and—

“Don’t encourage him.”

“I’m not encouraging him!”

“Just ignore him.”

“That’s rude.”

“He’s a Hollow, he doesn’t have a heart. He can take it.”

“This is giving me a headache. I wrote the last paper on the zoo topic, and we’re not evening using it. So you get to write the paper on the martial arts topic.”

“We’re supposed to write it together.”

“Well, your handwriting is hard to read…” You said, now that you thought about it.

Kurosaki sputtered, indignant.

“Okay, just shut up for a few minutes and I’ll write something.” You decided.

Shoving Kurosaki aside – you had way too much fun with that, just shoving a hand in his face and letting him tip over the rest of the way onto the floor. He even played along nicely, flailing wildly and still sputtering about his handwriting being totally readable. You ignored him and commandeered his desk, grabbed some paper, a pen, and began to write.

~

Kurosaki read the single-page proposal you’d drafted. It was approximately seven hundred words long, the requirement, with a bulleted set of steps at the end.

“Can you write all my papers?”

“No.”

A playful grin lurked at the corners of Kurosaki’s lips, but he buried it underneath a scowl.

“Okay, I guess we’re done with this.”

You melted into the chair. “Finally!” You glanced at the clock – and almost had a heart attack. It was an hour to midnight. “I need to get home.”

“I’ll walk you,” Kurosaki started to get up.

“No!” If he did, then he would know where you lived and could stab you in your sleep! _Okay, honest time self: this paranoia is getting ridiculous._ Brain argued otherwise: _it’s keeping us alive._ You groaned. Kurosaki frowned at you.

“Why not?”

“It’s late, I don’t want to trouble you with walking me home.”

“It’s no trouble.” If anything, Kurosaki’s frown deepened into a scowl. Every single one of his homicidal trains of thought indicated he would not give up on this endeavor. You grasped at straws for an excuse that would deter him.

“It’ll _be_ trouble if you do, my brother thinks you’re a serial killer.”

Silence.

Hichigo’s hysterical laughter pierced that silence, bouncing off of the towering glass buildings in Kurosaki’s mindscape.

 _Welp_ , you thought and looked about the room, avoiding Kurosaki’s gaze and trying not to fidget with your sleeve, _this is totally not awkward_.

“One block.” Kurosaki said.

One block? One block what—oh! He was negotiating; he wanted to walk you within one block of your home. Ha. Like you would let him get that close.

“Ten blocks.”

Kurosaki sputtered, “You could die within ten blocks! Three blocks.”

“Eight blocks.”

“Three.”

“Five.”

“Fine, four!”

“Deal.” You would just pretend your address was two blocks closer than what it really was, and that would amount to within six blocks.

~

Within six blocks of your house, you were having one hell of a time trying to convenience Kurosaki to hold up his end of the bargain.

“You agreed!”

“Like hell I agreed!”

“You liar, are you welching on our deal?!”

“We didn’t shake hands, so it wasn’t a deal.”

“No, no, no, no! You are _not_ coming near my house!”

“Like hell I’m letting you walk home alone at midnight!”

“It’s not midnight!”

Kurosaki whipped out his phone, showing you the screen. It said seventeen minutes to midnight. When you pointed this out, Kurosaki only scowled more.

“Forget it, keep walking. I’m making sure you get there in one piece.”

You refused to budge. How were you going to get rid of this madman? You couldn’t even get Hichigo’s help, as the bastard was interested in knowing where you lived for… certain unmentionable reasons.

The three cats from earlier had doubled to six cats now, all of them observing the two of you with disinterested but unwavering gazes. Kurosaki particularly seemed to dislike the black cat, by the way he kept scowling and muttering curses at it under his breath. He was pretty good about not thinking about the black cat though… _He’s learning to control his thoughts around me_ , you noted. One on end, that was nice and considerate and gave you less of a headache—but on the other end, it just caused you to worry more because _what in the world was he thinking?!_

“The cats will walk me.”

“What?”

“You heard me,” you insisted.

“That’s ridiculous.”

“Black cat.” You said, and the black cat looked to you on cue, hoping down from the wall and coming to a stop by your feet. Instantly you were reminded of your younger years and traveling around the park with a cat or two planted firmly by your side as a guardian. You knelt down, speaking to the cat, “Will you make sure I get home safely, and then come here and inform Kurosaki?” The cat considered you, considered Kurosaki (who scowled harshly), blinked its gold eyes slowly, and nodded. You swore the cat was even grinning—but no. You did not want to get into that topic.

Kurosaki flipped a shit.

“No! ABSOLUTELY NOT! THAT CAT IS NOT—”

“Kurosaki.” You hissed, whacking his arm, “Shut up! It’s almost midnight and the neighbors are sleeping. Do you want to wake them up and cause them to call the police?!”

Kurosaki grit his teeth. Hichigo similarly seethed in the background, growling phrases such as _skin the crap outta tha’ damn cat_ and _he’s mine_. You ignored the way the latter phrase made your stomach drop and your lower half tingle, instead focusing on the part of your brain that insisted possessive phrases such as that indicated a severe form of psychopathy that should be avoided at all costs – no matter how delightfully it made your skin tingle.

“It’s either this or I walk home alone, Kurosaki. Your choice.”

Kurosaki glowered. Quite suddenly, he knelt down next to the cat, picking it up by the scruff and shaking it about. “If anything happens—”

“Kurosaki! Put her down, now!!”

Kurosaki let go of the cat, and it easily landed on all fours, unharmed.

You huffed, rubbing your temples. This was ridiculous. How had your life suddenly become so strange? Whatever. It was better not to focus on the absurdity of it too much.

“Thank you for walking me home.” You said, bowing politely – not too much, not too little – to Kurosaki. “I’ll see you at school Monday.”

“Hmph.” Kurosaki grunted, shoving his hands in his pockets and pointedly looking away. He was trying to be cool and didn’t want to be overly mushy with a goodbye. He was also avoiding looking at the black cat as much as possible because it pissed him off.

Hichigo insisted that Kurosaki should get a goodbye kiss—you quickly walked away, your palms sweaty and your heart racing needlessly. The black cat dutifully followed, perfectly in pace with your steps. Along the wall, the other cats followed as well. You ignored how odd it was to have six cats escorting you home, too busy trying not to flat-out run home or suddenly turn around and jump into Kurosaki’s arms.

You got home all too quickly, thanking the cats and watching as the black cat slipped off once you entered the apartment. In the living room, you found your brother passed out on the couch. He’d probably tried to stay awake, half concerned about your livelihood, but then all the worrying made him sleepy and he just collapsed. You considered leaving him to sleep but then he would probably have a nightmare about you dying or something, so you woke him up with a few pokes to the forehead.

He swatted your hand away.

“Wha-wha-don’cha-what are you?” He rubbed his eyes, “Don’t you know how to wake someone up normally?”

“This is normally.” You retorted, thinking of Kurosaki and his father. “Not normally is kicking you so you fall out of the couch and wake up.”

Your brother stared at you blankly, partially awake and partially asleep.

“Look, I’m back. I’m alive. Everything’s fine. You can go back to sleep now.” You said.

“Okay, cool.” Your brother rolled over on the couch, appearing to return to sleep. You waited a few seconds for the delayed reaction—he suddenly rolled back over, half sitting up. “Wait. That kid, you were with the axe murder—”

“It’s fine. He’s not an axe murder.”

“BPD?”

“Nope.”

“So what was it?”

“An overactive imagination.”

Your brother stared, a funny sort of expression overtaking his face. “Huh. Okay. Never heard that one before…”

“You’d be surprised how much some people can think.”

“Is that a dig at me?”

“I don’t know. It’s not like I can hear you thinking. Since I hear everyone thinking, that must mean—”

“That is totally a dig at me you little punk!” Your brother tackled you in mock-anger, tickling your sides. You tried to keep your laughter down so as not to wake up the neighbors.

Eventually the tickle war ended and you were able to retire to bed. As you meandered down the hall to your room, your brother called to you.

“Yeah?” You asked, turning around to face him. An odd expression flitted across his face, so brief that you didn’t fully catch it. Panic? Nah. Couldn’t be… it must be the hallway shadows playing tricks on your vision. “What’s up?” You prompted.

He gave you a grin, one of his usual dorky and sheepish grins with all his teeth showing. “Y’know I love you, right?”

You rolled your eyes and huffed teasingly, “C’mon, it’s too late for this mushy-gushy-ness.” Grinning back at him, you added, “Yeah, I know.” and headed into your room.

“Hey, aren’t you gonna say you love me back?!” He hollered, his tone joking.

“Goodnight brother!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m a terrible person. I didn’t realize I hadn’t updated this in so long—I’m so sorry! As a reader, I know how painful it is to find something you enjoy and then have to wait for it to be updated and the wait becomes longer and longer until you think it’s never going to be finished. This will be finished. I don’t know _when_ it will be finished (I’m hoping before the end of the year) but it _will_ be finished.


	26. (F) Chapter 13: Paranoid

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> female-reader perspective

Dinner was awkward.

Not because of Isshin’s insistence on showing naked baby pictures of Ichigo over the lamb soup, or because of Karin’s snippy comments on your background and inability to speak Japanese fluently due to your having left the country at a young age, or because of Yuzu’s flowering concern over if the food tasted over-seasoned or under-seasoned or too spicy or not spicy at all and if Karin was being mean and their Papa being overzealous—

Nope. None of that.

It was because of Kurosaki. Albino Kurosaki. _Hichigo._ You reminded yourself for the hundredth time, and tried _gods did you try_ not to squirm or fidget _because the friction was not helping_ and not to pay any attention at all to the erotic vignettes Hichigo kept projecting.

It wasn’t working. It had taken Hichigo – what, two minutes? Not even that, to realize that if you could think words at them and could hear their thoughts without trying – _trying and failing so hard to block them out –_ well, then, the conclusions were obvious. Hichigo could just think suggestive thoughts at you. And he wasn’t the least bit concerned about if you were interested or not because, well, he also had a good memory of what happened not even ten minutes ago. In their head. Which he kept replaying – but with a longer… more detailed… more _fruitful_ timeline.

Cold, pale hands traced over your breasts and down along your ribcage with feather light touches. The lightness of each touch made the coldness of Hichigo’s fingers stand out more but in a refreshing manner, like stepping outside into the winter air after having run a thousand miles. The hands continued down to your abdomen, where nails began to scrap lightly in place of cold fingertips. You didn’t know you were shivering in your seat until Isshin worried that the house temperature was “too cold for his delicate offspring.”

Kurosaki said something along the lines of you weren’t related, to which Isshin took great offense. You didn’t hear them. Hichigo’s tongue had replaced his fingers, and now he was licking slow, too-hot circles along your hipbone.

 _When did you undress me?_ You thought hazily, fingering the fabric of your shirt and contemplating Hichigo’s logic—or lack of it, in these fantasies. The blueness of his tongue stood out starkly against your skin. It was odd how blue it appeared, given how hot his tongue felt. Blue usually represented coldness…

 _S’not a fantasy if it’s really happening,_ Hichigo answered, his breath ghosting against your skin and chilling the areas he’d licked. He continued down until he was just millimeters away from where you wanted it most. You tried wiggling closer with a whine but he just gripped your hips and held you firmly in place.

This was too much. It was too slow. It wasn’t enough. You needed more—

You crushed the broccoli with the flat side of your fork, trying to escape the heady environment. From his spot beside you, Kurosaki valiantly kept his eyes closed. It looked like the food he ate was too spicy, what with his face being extremely red.

“Oh, big brother! I made the food too spicy! I just knew it!” Yuzu wailed. “Don’t hurt yourself big brother!”

“Quit it, Yuzu. He’s just being a pansy ass.”

“Karin! Don’t be so mean to our brother!”

“Ichigo you bastard! Look at how your selfishness is making my wonderful daughters fight!”

“Damnit old man if you don’t stop rubbing your foot in my face—” The threat came a breath too late. Kurosaki flipped Isshin over the half-wall separating the dining room and kitchen, and onto the kitchen island. Despite the loud screaming, Isshin seemed fine.

Mostly.

You brushed your crumbled broccoli to the side of your plate. When Kurosaki – and everyone else – wasn’t looking, you quietly slid your plate closer to Kurosaki’s and shoved the ruined broccoli soldiers the rest of the way onto his plate. You resumed your attack on the rice, making small mounds and rolling the meat into the valleys. The carrots looked to be at war with the rest of your food, what with the way they pointed.

“Are you playing with your food?” Karin’s voice hitched up. Without looking at her, you could tell her lip was curled in disgust.

“Oh, how wonderfully creative my new daughter is!” Isshin resurrected himself and magically appeared at your elbow. He attempted to hug you—but Kurosaki tripped him. He fell and rolled under the table, popped up on the other side, and began ranting about the woes of being a single father and how Masaki would not stand for this disrespect!

A tick mark appeared on Kurosaki’s forehead. You figured Hichigo’s laughter wasn’t helping. At least he wasn’t thinking anything erotic right now, being too busy enjoying Kurosaki’s misery. Their relationship reminded you of siblings that couldn’t get along. _Thank goodness brother and I aren’t like that_ , you thought. You wouldn’t know what to do if the two of you were like that. He was the only person you could trust. Kurosaki stood up— _I’m gonna kill that old man!_ —his hands coming up under the table to flip it—

“Kurosaki?” you asked, pointing at his plate. It was magically full of crushed broccoli, and yours—empty. “Would you like to finish that in your room? It’s getting late, and we need to wrap up our project.”

“How did…?” Karin whispered.

“Oh, you liked my food?” Yuzu squealed.

“I loved it,” you answered. “It was seasoned to perfection.” Because honestly it was, you just weren’t in the mood for broccoli.

“No, I’m done. Let’s go.” Kurosaki announced. He promptly dragged you away, leaving Karin sputtering, Yuzu glowing, and Isshin bemoaning his inability to spend quality father-daughter time with you.

You moved so you were several steps ahead of Kurosaki quite suddenly, scurrying into his room and burrowing yourself in paperwork. You didn’t need to hear Isshin speak anymore. He’d said enough to last a lifetime, enough that your eyes wouldn’t stop prickling. If your father was still around, if you’d lived with him instead of mother…

You clenched your jaw and tried to recall whatever you and Not-Kurosaki had settled on for a project topic, instead of all the time you missed out on with your own deceased dad.

Kurosaki closed and locked the door.

“Hey, are you alrig—”

“I think we picked zoo animals.”

“What?”

“Not-Kurosaki and I, when you were… gone?” You were still confused by this. “We picked studying zoo animals and determining if their quality of life was improved or worsened by varying degrees of human contact.”

Kurosaki settled into his desk chair. You remained on the floor beside his bed. This was a nice, safe distance. No pointy death swords were long enough to reach you from here. _Stop that, he already agreed not to kill you._ You lectured yourself, _And he’s got a psychopath inhabiting his body, so he could change his mind on the drop of a dime._

You could hear Isshin loudly lamenting his woes beyond the locked door. He wanted to teach you how to run a clinic so you could take over when you got older and—Kurosaki opened the door to smash another foot in Isshin’s face, sending him tumbling back down the stairs.

“You have a very violent relationship.” You commented. Kurosaki grunted.

“Do you want to study zoo animals?”

“Not really.”

“What do you want to study?”

“Zombies.”

Kurosaki stared. _Zombies? Seriously?! First Grim Reapers and then zombies. I can’t help with zombies!!_ Hichigo laughed in the background. _Quit it Hollow! This isn’t funny!_ When he wouldn’t stop laughing, Kurosaki took a closer look at you. The moment when he realized you were joking, you could see it in the relief on his face.

“I thought you were serious for a moment there.”

“I know.”

“Stop reading my mind!”

“Stop screaming so loudly!”

The air became too thick to breath. What was supposed to be a pleasant evening of working on a project had become far too convoluted—he knew your secret. You were trapped in a room above a clinic with an overly affectionate stranger insistent on adopting you and a possessed ghost hunter interested in screwing your brains out.

An idea smacked you in the head. It hurt wonderfully.

“You like fighting, right?”

“What? No!”

“But you do it all the time, and your possessed demon—I mean.” Kurosaki gave you a withering look. “Hichigo.” You amended, and quickly moved on, using wild arm movements and gestures to distract from blabbering your confusion out loud. “He likes fighting too. Both of you do it all the time in the city with the sideways sky. And you do it with your father as well!”

“I do it to protect people.” _I do it to protect my precious ones_. A series of faces flashed through Kurosaki’s mind, a flood threatening to transform into a tsunami of all the broken, bloody, endangered, harmed people that couldn’t be protected. It suffocated you.

“Okay,” you gasped. “I get it. Fighting protects people. Isn’t that the concept of martial arts? Self-defense? So then, hear me out,” you held up your hand to stop Kurosaki from speaking, from thinking more on that swelling tsunami, “How about we study how martial arts has transformed inside of and outside of literature over the years?”

“Okay.”

“Okay?”

“Yeah, okay.”

“You’re not even going to question it?”

“Why? It’s a solid idea. It combines something I enjoy with something you enjoy. Okay.”

“Ugh.” You fell over, flattening yourself across the floor. Kurosaki’s tsunami had vanished as suddenly as it had appeared. The air felt light again, easy to breath, and no longer crackled hotly. Kurosaki leaned back in his chair, letting it tip precariously.

“What’s wrong? You want me to argue with you?” He scowled, as per normal, but in a very mild manner. He wanted to seem cool. He _really_ wanted to seem cool. You had a nice butt.

“Stop that.”

“What?”

“Nothing,” you mumbled, and tried not to wiggle your butt. How could a compliment be both pleasing and embarrassing? You told yourself to stop cruising through Kurosaki’s thoughts. _Practice blocking them out. If you can accomplish this, then you can accomplish anything,_ you told yourself. The pep-talk wasn’t very motivating, what with Hichigo thinking about—

 _Hollow,_ Kurosaki growled.

 _Shhh,_ Hichigo swatted him away. _I ain’t like you King, I’m enjoying my instincts._

“We should interview martial artists,” you said.

Kurosaki grunted. He agreed with a small part of his mind, the majority of his thoughts locked in combat with Hichigo and in assessing the usefulness of fantasying about butts.

“Dead ones,” you added. Kurosaki grunted again. He was paying significantly less attention to your words with each passing second. “As in, we should interview some of your ghost friends. You have those, right?”

Kurosaki grunted additional agreement. You finally looked up at him, smiling.

“I’m glad we agree.”

“Wait—what?”

“On interviewing.”

“Oh, yeah. Great.”

“The dead.”

“No—SHIT!” Kurosaki’s chair tipped over the rest of the way. It clattered onto the floor as Kurosaki did weird acrobatic maneuvers to vault to safety. His muscles flexed with the demonstration, and for a moment, you could see his well-defined abs again.

 _Why is it all the hot guys are insane?_ You looked away to keep from staring.

“No!” Kurosaki repeated.

“I heard you the first time, no need to yell.” You rubbed your ears unhappily.

Kurosaki sighed. He ruffled his hair with both hands. He put his chair back in place. He sat in it. He stood back up. You watched all of this antsy movement with one eyebrow raised. Finally, he sat down next to you on the floor.

Your safety distance was officially destroyed.

“Look, part of you knowing about Soul Society is that you can’t – and I really mean this – you can _not_ tell anyone.”

“I know.”

“And I can’t get you involved with ghosts.”

“I get it.”

Kurosaki stared at you, all his muscles tensed to the point that you could see them straining to remain beneath his skin. How did he even get so muscular? “Do you really?”

“Yeah. No interviewing famous dead martial artists or any really old ghosts that can beat the crap out of you.”

“They can’t beat the crap out of me,” Kurosaki puffed up his chest. Oh really? He was doing this now? Showing off for you? “I’m stronger than all of them.”

“Right.” You hummed, not actually agreeing. Kurosaki scowled at you – not actually angry, but more urging you to go along with his charade. You shoved him playfully. For the briefest second – he grinned.

It made you forget your next question.

Looking away quickly, you racked your brain for that missing question. Martial artists, dead people, stuff. Stuff. Stuff! Right!

“We should still interview someone – how about your Dad?”

“We can interview dead people.” Kurosaki announced suddenly, his expression flat. _No way in hell I’m letting that old man mess with our project._

“What? You just said—”

“I changed my mind. You come up with the list of questions, and I’ll ask them.”

You looked stupid right now, you just knew it, with your jaw hanging open and your eyebrows rising up to your hairline. Kurosaki found it adorable. Hichigo wondered how well you could swallow.

And you closed your mouth. _Pervert_ , you thought at Hichigo, which only made the bastard smirk and—

“Don’t encourage him.”

“I’m not encouraging him!”

“Just ignore him.”

“That’s rude.”

“He’s a Hollow, he doesn’t have a heart. He can take it.”

“This is giving me a headache. I wrote the last paper on the zoo topic, and we’re not evening using it. So you get to write the paper on the martial arts topic.”

“We’re supposed to write it together.”

“Well, your handwriting is hard to read…” You said, now that you thought about it.

Kurosaki sputtered, indignant.

“Okay, just shut up for a few minutes and I’ll write something.” You decided.

Shoving Kurosaki aside – you had way too much fun with that, just shoving a hand in his face and letting him tip over the rest of the way onto the floor. He even played along nicely, flailing wildly and still sputtering about his handwriting being totally readable. You ignored him and commandeered his desk, grabbed some paper, a pen, and began to write.

~

Kurosaki read the single-page proposal you’d drafted. It was approximately seven hundred words long, the requirement, with a bulleted set of steps at the end.

“Can you write all my papers?”

“No.”

A playful grin lurked at the corners of Kurosaki’s lips, but he buried it underneath a scowl.

“Okay, I guess we’re done with this.”

You melted into the chair. “Finally!” You glanced at the clock – and almost had a heart attack. It was an hour to midnight. “I need to get home.”

“I’ll walk you,” Kurosaki started to get up.

“No!” If he did, then he would know where you lived and could stab you in your sleep! _Okay, honest time self: this paranoia is getting ridiculous._ Brain argued otherwise: _it’s keeping us alive._ You groaned. Kurosaki frowned at you.

“Why not?”

“It’s late, I don’t want to trouble you with walking me home.”

“It’s no trouble.” If anything, Kurosaki’s frown deepened into a scowl. Every single one of his homicidal trains of thought indicated he would not give up on this endeavor. You grasped at straws for an excuse that would deter him.

“It’ll _be_ trouble if you do, my brother thinks you’re a serial killer.”

Silence.

Hichigo’s hysterical laughter pierced that silence, bouncing off of the towering glass buildings in Kurosaki’s mindscape.

 _Welp_ , you thought and looked about the room, avoiding Kurosaki’s gaze and trying not to fidget with your hair, _this is totally not awkward_.

“One block.” Kurosaki said.

One block? One block what—oh! He was negotiating; he wanted to walk you within one block of your home. Ha. Like you would let him get that close.

“Ten blocks.”

Kurosaki sputtered, “You could die within ten blocks! Three blocks.”

“Eight blocks.”

“Three.”

“Five.”

“Fine, four!”

“Deal.” You would just pretend your address was two blocks closer than what it really was, and that would amount to within six blocks.

~

Within six blocks of your house, you were having one hell of a time trying to convenience Kurosaki to hold up his end of the bargain.

“You agreed!”

“Like hell I agreed!”

“You liar, are you welching on our deal?!”

“We didn’t shake hands, so it wasn’t a deal.”

“No, no, no, no! You are _not_ coming near my house!”

“Like hell I’m letting you walk home alone at midnight!”

“It’s not midnight!”

Kurosaki whipped out his phone, showing you the screen. It said seventeen minutes to midnight. When you pointed this out, Kurosaki only scowled more.

“Forget it, keep walking. I’m making sure you get there in one piece.”

You refused to budge. How were you going to get rid of this madman? You couldn’t even get Hichigo’s help, as the bastard was interested in knowing where you lived for… certain unmentionable reasons.

The three cats from earlier had doubled to six cats now, all of them observing the two of you with disinterested but unwavering gazes. Kurosaki particularly seemed to dislike the black cat, by the way he kept scowling and muttering curses at it under his breath. He was pretty good about not thinking about the black cat though… _He’s learning to control his thoughts around me_ , you noted. One on end, that was nice and considerate and gave you less of a headache—but on the other end, it just caused you to worry more because _what in the world was he thinking?!_

“The cats will walk me.”

“What?”

“You heard me,” you insisted.

“That’s ridiculous.”

“Black cat.” You said, and the black cat looked to you on cue, hoping down from the wall and coming to a stop by your feet. Instantly you were reminded of your younger years and traveling around the park with a cat or two planted firmly by your side as a guardian. You knelt down, speaking to the cat, “Will you make sure I get home safely, and then come here and inform Kurosaki?” The cat considered you, considered Kurosaki (who scowled harshly), blinked its gold eyes slowly, and nodded. You swore the cat was even grinning—but no. You did not want to get into that topic.

Kurosaki flipped a shit.

“No! ABSOLUTELY NOT! THAT CAT IS NOT—”

“Kurosaki.” You hissed, whacking his arm, “Shut up! It’s almost midnight and the neighbors are sleeping. Do you want to wake them up and cause them to call the police?!”

Kurosaki grit his teeth. Hichigo similarly seethed in the background, growling phrases such as _skin the crap outta tha’ damn cat_ and _she’s mine_. You ignored the way the latter phrase made your stomach drop and your lower half tingle, instead focusing on the part of your brain that insisted possessive phrases such as that indicated a severe form of psychopathy that should be avoided at all costs – no matter how delightfully it made your skin tingle.

“It’s either this or I walk home alone, Kurosaki. Your choice.”

Kurosaki glowered. Quite suddenly, he knelt down next to the cat, picking it up by the scruff and shaking it about. “If anything happens—”

“Kurosaki! Put her down, now!!”

Kurosaki let go of the cat, and it easily landed on all fours, unharmed.

You huffed, rubbing your temples. This was ridiculous. How had your life suddenly become so strange? Whatever. It was better not to focus on the absurdity of it too much.

“Thank you for walking me home.” You said, bowing politely – not too much, not too little – to Kurosaki. “I’ll see you at school Monday.”

“Hmph.” Kurosaki grunted, shoving his hands in his pockets and pointedly looking away. He was trying to be cool and didn’t want to be overly mushy with a goodbye. He was also avoiding looking at the black cat as much as possible because it pissed him off.

Hichigo insisted that Kurosaki should get a goodbye kiss—you quickly walked away, your palms sweaty and your heart racing needlessly. The black cat dutifully followed, perfectly in pace with your steps. Along the wall, the other cats followed as well. You ignored how odd it was to have six cats escorting you home, too busy trying not to flat-out run home or suddenly turn around and jump into Kurosaki’s arms.

You got home all too quickly, thanking the cats and watching as the black cat slipped off once you entered the apartment. In the living room, you found your brother passed out on the couch. He’d probably tried to stay awake, half concerned about your livelihood, but then all the worrying made him sleepy and he just collapsed. You considered leaving him to sleep but then he would probably have a nightmare about you dying or something, so you woke him up with a few pokes to the forehead.

He swatted your hand away.

“Wha-wha-don’cha-what are you?” He rubbed his eyes, “Don’t you know how to wake someone up normally?”

“This is normally.” You retorted, thinking of Kurosaki and his father. “Not normally is kicking you so you fall out of the couch and wake up.”

Your brother stared at you blankly, partially awake and partially asleep.

“Look, I’m back. I’m alive. Everything’s fine. You can go back to sleep now.” You said.

“Okay, cool.” Your brother rolled over on the couch, appearing to return to sleep. You waited a few seconds for the delayed reaction—he suddenly rolled back over, half sitting up. “Wait. That kid, you were with the axe murder—”

“It’s fine. He’s not an axe murder.”

“BPD?”

“Nope.”

“So what was it?”

“An overactive imagination.”

Your brother stared, a funny sort of expression overtaking his face. “Huh. Okay. Never heard that one before…”

“You’d be surprised how much some people can think.”

“Is that a dig at me?”

“I don’t know. It’s not like I can hear you thinking. Since I hear everyone thinking, that must mean—”

“That is totally a dig at me you little punk!” Your brother tackled you in mock-anger, tickling your sides. You tried to keep your laughter down so as not to wake up the neighbors.

Eventually the tickle war ended and you were able to retire to bed. As you meandered down the hall to your room, your brother called to you.

“Yeah?” You asked, turning around to face him. An odd expression flitted across his face, so brief that you didn’t fully catch it. Panic? Nah. Couldn’t be… it must be the hallway shadows playing tricks on your vision. “What’s up?” You prompted, rubbing your eyes.

He gave you a grin, one of his usual dorky and sheepish grins with all his teeth showing. “Y’know I love you, right?”

You rolled your eyes and huffed teasingly, “C’mon, it’s too late for this mushy-gushy-ness.” Grinning back at him, you added, “Yeah, I know.” and headed into your room.

“Hey, aren’t you gonna say you love me back?!” He hollered, his tone joking.

“Goodnight brother!”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m a terrible person. I didn’t realize I hadn’t updated this in so long—I’m so sorry! As a reader, I know how painful it is to find something you enjoy and then have to wait for it to be updated and the wait becomes longer and longer until you think it’s never going to be finished. This will be finished. I don’t know _when_ it will be finished (I’m hoping before the end of the year) but it _will_ be finished.


End file.
